


Claret

by Eyeslikechrome



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bloodplay, Bondage, Canon-Typical Violence, Cicero has PTSD, F/M, Graphic Description, Other, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Torture, Who wants to save the world anyway?, blue balling the readers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-05-04 21:50:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 105,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5349758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eyeslikechrome/pseuds/Eyeslikechrome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After absorbing the soul of an ancient creature from her nightmares, Claret flees Whiterun and the Companions to escape her destiny and runs headlong into a man that will twist and warp her every thought, pulling her deeper into the Darkness that so sweetly calls her home. </p>
<p>Warnings for: Violence, foul language, fluff, gray morals, Cicero being Cicero, sadism, masochism, bondage, mild bloodplay, hints at past noncon, Canon divergence here and there, there will be smut, but not right away, lots of sexual tension, graphic description of torture, murder, and Claret's slow descent into the bloodthirsty, domineering dragon that sleeps inside of her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dove

**Author's Note:**

> Ooookay, so I have been looking around for a new nest to settle my little plot bunnies in and after much deliberation, I have settled upon the lovely site. So for my first fic that I'd like to share with you, here is Claret. I have always adored Cicero and his story line and have always wanted to try my hand at writing a sociopathic serial killer, so I figured why not give it a shot. I am hoping to blurr the lines between right and wrong with this fic. The goal has always been from the very beginning to illustrate Claret's gradual corruption in a way that even the reader hopes for it. This is a very rough story and I will be editing and correcting as I go along without the use of a Beta so please forgive the errors. 
> 
> I do not own The Elderscrolls content listed within, but I do however own the persona that is Claret (Dove). I am writing this purely for entertainment purposes and am making no profit from it. I make a point to follow basic cannon lore but have taken artistic license with much of it. Enjoy! And if you like it, please let me know. -Eyes

It was late in the day when Claret left the gates of Whiterun. With nothing but a small pack, a hunting bow and quiver, and a cloth wrapped bastard sword on her person, she moved quickly along the road. Why had things gone so poorly? A missive had arrived in the middle of the night for aid in driving off a dragon that had been spotted in the area. Why she bothered agreeing to it in the first place was beyond her. She was a Companion, one of the prestigious warriors of Skyrim that fought for glory, a good battle, and above all else, coin. She considered this her resignation, though she knew none of them would understand why she was leaving. They would find out sooner than later about what she had done. The call for aid from the Jarl's housecarl could not have come at a worse time. Most of her shield siblings had already been sent out to other missions, save for the newest of them and they certainly could not be expected to take on a dragon. Claret had jumped at the chance to test her skill against a foe as mighty as a dragon. Mainly so that she could gloat and rub it in Vilkas' snotty face afterward.

And then when she'd actually faced the overgrown reptile, it had spoken to her, spoken in Dovah. And she'd understood it. Her frame still quaked with the force of the slain beast's soul that had surged into her. It itched against her insides, far too large for such a tiny figure. Dovahkiin. Piss on that. The summons from the Greybeards was heard and promptly ignored. She had no desire to be held on high as some glorified savior of the world. Was it cowardly of her? Maybe a little. But honestly, could anyone really blame her? Was she afraid of dragons? No, not really. Yes they were fearsome and dangerous and huge, but she'd never been one to fear things that could kill her. She feared the responsibility, the thought of thousands of lives willing her to save them and failing. She also knew that titles like Thane and Dragonborn and Prophesied sounded an awful lot like commitment and loneliness and high expectations. The moment that the Jarl had mentioned appointing some woman named Lydia to her service, the small halfbreed had "noped" right out of there as fast as she could.

She was the last person that wanted to deal with anything like that. Hell, before Kodlak had found her in Riften stealing to survive she'd been a thief in the making. She'd only been around ten summers old at the time and she'd gotten her hand caught in the seasoned warrior's coin purse. And she'd been a handful. It had taken the old warrior years to get her used to the idea of not outright stealing whenever she wanted and even longer for her to stop being such a rebellious brat. But even at the age of twenty four those old habits still lingered. Habits that told her that being in the spotlight as the Dragonborn meant making herself a giant walking target for everyone wanting to get ahead in life. Survival at all costs. That was what she learned from her father when he'd sacrificed everything to bring her to Skyrim after her mother had died. The man had perished at the hands of bandits who had tried to kidnap the pretty little Nordic Bosmer girl. And he had told her, "Fly, Dove. Run and live no matter what!"

So that was exactly what she was doing. She was no hero. Her heart hurt a bit for the loss of her home in Whiterun. She truly adored Kodlak, Aela, and Farkas. Vilkas was an ass, but she had to grudgingly admit to herself that she would miss their constant fighting. Claret shook free of those thoughts and steeled herself. She'd not planned on remaining in Whiterun for much longer anyway. As a young woman, it was expected of her to find a strong man to marry and birth warrior sons to. Or to die of old age as a loveless crone. True, as a Companion she could have very easily lived out her days with the others fighting and making a name for herself. She didn't mind the fighting. She did however, dislike all of the rules. The Companions were all about honor and valor, fighting for good and all.

Honestly, she fought because she enjoyed it. Vilkas was the only one that ever really complained about her methods, claiming that she was deceptive and that stealth and sneaking was for weak little thieves with no honor. She promptly called him a stubborn moron.

She loved the thrill of hunting and stalking, much as Aela, though on a much deeper level. There was something utterly satisfying about seeing the fear and recognition on the faces of her foes before she killed them. Of course, such a thing was frowned on. So as she walked, Claret gradually felt waves of tension float away. She could follow her own rules now. A smile crossed her rounded face, full lips parting in excitement. She was strong, had coin, and was grown. She could do anything that she wanted now.

There was a lightness to her steps, her thigh high, thick leather boots carrying her with a happy gait. Her dress was simple, held in place with thin straps on her shoulders to leave her bare arms free. The dress was a dark green, huging her torso tight and cutting off at mid calf with long slits up the sides to allow for movement. A wide belt bound her waist held her daggers across the small of her back. Her sword, large for someone her size hung at her hip, while on her shoulders were strapped her bow and quiver. Slung over her shoulder and resting on her free hip was her travel pack with rations, flint and tinder, and a few changes of clothes along with other odds and ends. Her long hair hung in a thick plait over her shoulder, falling to her waist despite being braided. It was her one vanity, mostly because of her father. He had loved her hair because it matched her mother's so well.

Gleaming white and nearly to her knees when let down it was her most notable feature. Her skin was tanned a Nordic gold from hours in the sun, marked with the occasional scar and freckles across her high cheekbones. She looked delicate, with her toned arms and figure, her large almond eyes the color of the southern seas and slightly pointed ears giving her an exotic look. She was close to Loreius farm when she spotted an interesting spectacle. A man dramatically lamented his misfortune, pacing to and fro before his apparently broken wagon.

"Oh curse this DAMNED WAGON WHEEL!" He half shrieked as she neared and the half elf was unable to stop herself from chuckling lightly.

"Um, are you alright?" Claret inquired, earning the man's attention. He was dressed rather oddly, a jester of all things, hat and pointed boots and all. He fixed her with pleading eyes that were the color of glistening amber. His forwardness startled her, the Imperial man getting uncomfortably close. There was something about him, something not quite right that had her both wary and intrigued all at once. He was wild looking, on the verge of tears as he pleaded for her to speak with the owner of the farm to fix his broken wheel. This of course had her thinking. She needed a way to get out of the area quickly before the Companions figured out that she'd run off. No doubt Farkas and Vilkas would be sent to find her.

"Tell you what, I'll get him to fix your wagon, but only if you are willing to give me a lift," She offered with a small smile. He looked a little torn, biting his lower lip in thought as he appraised the girl in what she believed to be mistrust, "L-look if it's too much trouble I understand! I don't even really care which direction you are heading, even if it is only to the next town that is more than enough. And I can even hunt and cook! I just...haven't traveled alone before."

And it was true. She disliked the silence of long journeys without at least someone there to keep her company. But, not wanting to waste her coin on a mount or on a carriage, she hoped that the stranger would be alright with her hitching a ride for at least a little while. Besides, the carriages were easy to track and the boys would be on her trail too quickly that way.

"Well, I was going to give you coin, but a ride would be easy enough," He replied and the young woman's smile grew, unable to hold back her amusement when the jester all but danced at the prospect of having someone to talk to and having his wagon repaired. Pleased, the white haired woman set off toward the farmhouse. She knew the couple in passing, running into them in the market of Whiterun occasionally. They were good people from what she knew, but she could not understand why they would not help the stranded man. Sure he was a little...odd, but weren't all jesters?

Loreius was...resistant to the idea to put it mildly.

"Look, lass, there is something very wrong about that man. I can feel it in my bones that he is up to no good. We should call for the guard to handle him before he does something wicked," The farmer protested.

"But, if he stays here, isn't he more likely to do something wicked to you? At least with his wagon fixed and on the road, he will be away from your family," She reasoned and the man looked torn, "Besides, I'll be here to keep an eye on him."

With a weary sigh, the man nodded his assent, and giving him her thanks, Claret returned to the pacing jester.

"Oh the helpful, lovely stranger has returned! What did he say? Will he help poor Cicero?"He asked taking the girl's gloved hands in his. She tilted her head with a small smile.

"Of course. Don't tell me that you doubted me?" She half teased, earning a delightful cheer from the man who stood only inches taller than her. He clapped and danced about, twirling the laughing girl about with him in his exuberance. He certainly was energetic. But she knew he was not as simple as he made himself out to be. There was definitely something...wicked about him, the way he watched everything with a dark sort of calculation. And he smelt of blood and death. It clung to his being like a second skin and the hunter in her liked it. Naive she was not. He obviously was trouble in the making, him and that wooden box he guarded. But it was not her place to judge.

"Thank you, thank you, lovely, helpful, wonderful lady! Cicero is so very grateful!" He gushed with a grin that was not entirely pure, "May Cicero have the name of his rescuer?"

"Dove," She supplied simply with her own grin at his antics. Claret was not a common name in Skyrim and she was known in the region as a companion. The less she tossed her real name about, the better. Dove had been her childhood pet name and was easy to answer to.

"Such a lovely name for a lovely person. Dove, Dove, sweet Dove," Her name said in such a manner had a light flush coloring her freckled cheeks. He said it as though he were tasting it, as though it were something sensual. She licked her lips almost nervously and averted her gaze shyly to the farmer that strode toward them and missing the hungry look Cicero had fixed her with.

The farmer made quick work of the wheel and the entire time, Cicero's gaze did not stray from the beautiful halfling that had thought to aid him. She knew not whether his intentions were ill or otherwise, but the darkness in his stare had a mixture of fear and thrill tumbling through her gut. He was dangerous, that she knew. But then, so was she. Cicero paid and gushed his thanks to the man who seemed more than ready to be away from the jester. Though when he watched Dove placing her things on the seat next to Cicero, his face colored with alarm. The man motioned her over under the pretense of offering food for their journey and he spoke low and almost frantically to the former companion.

"Miss I beg you, do not go anywhere with that man. I have seen the way he looks at you and you are in danger," Loreius warned her as he handed her a small sack with a few sweet rolls that his wife had baked earlier that day. Dove felt her smile shift ever so slightly, her eyes growing cold as her own monster peaked out from beneath the layers of false innocence and virginal purity.

"I am not the one in danger, good sir. Of that you can be certain," She stated in a low murmur, the predatory look almost wrong on her angelic features, " Thank you so very much for your kindness."

The farmer could only watch in horror and despair as the duo started off down the road.

Cicero very happily babbled about this and that as she rode at his side, telling her everything from crude, somewhat twisted jokes to stories of his travels. His dark humor had her giggling as she listened and he seemed absolutely delighted to have such a pleasing audience. Dove was rather surprised by how easy it was to speak with the exuberant man. It was almost unsettling how natural it was. Though she caught herself glancing back at the coffin on more occasions than she'd have liked to admit. She just could not help herself. She caulked it up to be morbid curiosity. For all of the trouble the red haired man was going through his mother must have been someone special.

She talked only a little, content to listen to him and insert her own witty comments here and there. Cicero didn't seem to mind at all, all too happy to entertain the girl. The hour grew late, night settling over them quickly and they decided to make camp. Cicero made a makeshift shelter from the wind using the side of the wagon and a large canvas while Dove set about making a fire. They ate a light meal of dried meat and bread before Dove pulled out the sweet rolls she had been given. Cicero's face lit up in absolute joy at the sight of the frosted cake and she felt her smile widen at the sight of him so happy over something so small. And of course he had to make the most lewd sounds that he could while eating it, just to make her blush even redder. The little jerk. After saying their goodnights, she crawled into her fur lined bedroll with a tired yawn. The day had left her completely drained. Between the dragon, her own emotions, and traveling she was ready for sleep. Thanks to the blood in her veins, however, a fully restful sleep was nearly impossible.

Dreams of hunting filled her head. That is, until she caught the scent of old blood, and sweet oils, and something masculine. Her eyes barely opened to slits to the sight of Cicero perched over her, hovering entirely too close to her face. She had the man pinned beneath her with a dagger beneath his chin before he could do so much as blink. He let out an amused laugh, voice husky and eyes heavy lidded. Her breathing stilled as the scent of fresh blood split the air sharper than any knife. Her blue green stare roved over the fall of his shoulder length hair, turned red gold in the light of the fire. His proud Imperial features stood out almost white against the blanket of his hair, generous lips pulled into a grin that looked far too eager for her liking.

"Ah, Sweet Dove has caught naughty Cicero," He sighed, looking and sounding anything but sorry. Her brows furrowed suspiciously and his grin grew larger, " Not so sweet, are you Dove? No, no, much more than a nice, helpful lady, aren't you?"

She swallowed hard, the glinting obsidian blade nipping into his skin as she held him easily in place. Their position showed her exactly how pleased the red haired Imperial was to be under her and a dark flush burned across her cheeks.

"No more than you are a Jester," She retorted finally, while doing her best to ignore what was pressing up against her, "What were you doing?"

"Poor, naughty Cicero was merely watching Dove sleep. You move so much! What do you dream of, sweet Dove?" He asked curiously and she foolishly averted her stare from his intense gaze. The man had their positions reversed as easily as though he were toying with a mere child rather than the battle tested warrior she was. She struggled to free herself only to feel the chilled metal of what could only be a dagger against her cheek, " Ah ah ah, little Dove, that isn't very nice."

Her eyes fixed upon the thin cut she had made on his pale neck when he'd moved them. Blood slowly welled to the surface of the superficial wound and hunger hit her like a giant's club to the gut. From the look of awe on his features, she knew that it showed on her face. Her white hair fell about her in a loose mess, her eyes dilated until they were nearly black. Her small pink tongue rolled over her lips slowly, her mouth curling into a smile that was more than a little thrilling for the jester to see.

"I am not a very nice person, so that is alright," She replied, one of her hands moving to the collar of his skirt to bare more of his flesh as she raised her head up despite the threat of the dagger at her face. Cicero let out a breathy shiver when her warm tongue played over the small cut. She let out a moan at the taste of his blood, salt and copper and oh so sweet, " I would be very careful, Cicero. You should know better than to play with something that can eat you."

He made a somewhat strangled noise as her teeth teased at his skin lightly, the slight points of her canines scraping threateningly against his pulse. It was strange. His pulse was steady, despite the situation. What an odd person. His hat had fallen off long ago and his almost too red hair curtained about them.

"I'd suggest you go back to your bedroll and not sneak up on me in the future, my friend. I may not be so nice the next time," She added as she settled back comfortably in the thick fur, the dagger in her free hand tapping playfully against his inner thigh. Cicero laughed outright, golden eyes all but glowing with glee.

"Oh, Cicero likes you! I think that we are going to be such wonderful friends," He stated with a purr that had her insides squirming. Reluctantly the Jester moved off of her and sheathed his weapon. She had no doubt that he would have killed her in her sleep had she not awakened and surprised him. He watched her with a strange sort of intrigue, as though he were unsure of what to make of her. Clearly he'd hoped to enjoy killing her and had not expected her to react in such a way. More than once she thanked her beast blood. She brought the dagger that carried the faintest of traces of his blood along its edge to her lips, tongue flicking out to taste it more out of habit than anything else. Cicero shivered visibly and a small, almost eager noise left him. She rose to her feet, snagging her bow and quiver.

"I'm going hunting," And without another word, she moved off into the darkness. When she was far enough away to be out of earshot and sight, but still able to see the darkened figure of the Jester moving about the camp in the firelight, she let out an almost panicked gasp, gloved hand moving to cover her mouth and her fear caught up to her in one surge that left her breathless. He had honestly tried to kill her! She'd expected him to be dangerous, but not to outright try to get rid of her. It truly made her wonder at what he really had in that giant wooden crate. Just what was this man? She moved then, needing space, needing to hunt and escape from the torrent of emotion that flooded her system.

She sprinted across the hilly plains that stretched out across the central regions of Skyrim. The chilly night air filled her lungs and cooled her overheated skin as she tracked after a deer that had passed through. Her superior senses and night vision allowed her to pick up its trail easily enough even on the moonless night. She moved silently, taking care to mind her steps and to move downwind. Movement ahead had her stilling and crouching low in the tall grass. A buck grazed just below the hill she hid upon, munching contently upon the early spring shoots. The wolf in her rose closer to the surface, silken silver fur brushing against the insides of her skin. They would have him. She slunk through the tall grass, body moving in a way that no human could. And then she was moving, lunging with every ounce of her strength. A few hours later she wandered back to camp dragging the carcass along behind her. Cicero had been conversing with his mother softly when he noticed her, his eyes rolling over her wild appearance in appreciation. Her hair had fallen loose in thick waves about her blood smeared figure. Her lips were crimson from devouring the liver and heart of her prey that she'd killed with her bare hands rather than her bow.

She felt much better for it. She would not fear anyone, not even a crazy Fool. If he tried to kill her again, she would take his life.

"Touch me again without my permission and I'll send you to Sithis," She stated bluntly and without emotion. Cicero's eyes went impossibly wide, mouth falling slack against the promise. Her family had been fairly devout worshippers of the god of death, something that she herself continued more out of familiarity. She was not as devoted to him as they had been, but that did not stop her from praying to him when she took a life. Another taboo, of course. She was certain that the cause of most of Vilkas' rage toward her had been because he had seen the small medallion that she wore under her clothing at all times. For her, it was more a memento of her mother than anything else. The Bosmer woman had held the little child on her deathbed and told Dove not to be afraid or sad for she was going to Sithis and to rest with her family. The white haired halfling wore the necklace to keep her close.

His reaction was not what she had anticipated. The jester laughed. Full, genuine, amused laughter spilled from him like water from a fount.

"Be careful, Dove. You may just make me fall for you with such sweet words," He cackled. She frowned at him before shaking her head and turning her attention to skinning her kill. The rest of the night was spent in mostly blessed silence for her and after setting the meat for drying and wrapping some up for cooking later, Dove bathed in a nearby stream before falling to sleep as far from the Jester as she could, shelter be damned. She woke a few hours later at dawn and readied herself for the day. She glanced about the modest camp, eyes landing upon the still sleeping jester with mixed feelings. In sleep he looked entirely different. Peaceful, innocent, locks of red framing his handsome face.

She felt torn. But, resigned, she sat the small pouch with the last sweet roll near him before adjusting her pack and striding away from the road. Roads were a waste anyway. She planned to head south to the warmer areas of Skyrim, maybe find some work and lay low for a while until the dragonborn nonsense was behind her.

"Is little Dove leaving without poor Cicero?" Came the soft, almost childish question from behind her. She glanced back at the pitiful looking man with a curious expression.

"You seem like a bad influence," She remarked dryly and he scoffed.

"Obviously. But think of all the fun we could have! Cicero is very sorry for scaring little Dove. He did not know how truly wonderful she is!" He half begged, crawling over to sit at her feet. She could tell that he was just dying to cling to her legs and was fairly impressed with his self control.

"You tried to kill me," She deadpanned, earning a shrug from him and an impish smile.

"If it helps, Cicero tries to kill everyone!" He replied, startling a laugh from the young woman.

"You are crazy," Dove stated, shaking her head in disbelief.

"What was your first clue?" He cackled, "Cicero promises that he won't try to murder little Dove and that he will take her all the way to Falkreath."She bit her lower lip as indecision rolled about her insides. She should keep walking. And then she heard it. Soft, warm, and inviting.

Come, dear one. Stay with him.

A shudder rolled across her spine. Mother? Now, she wasn't one to believe in ghosts or premonitions or any of that, but hearing that loving almost motherly tone that sounded so much like home and belonging had her heart aching.

"Mother?" Cicero asked with a puzzled expression. Oh shit had she said that out loud?

"Nothing, just...fine okay, but only because I am going that way," She finally relented, earning a cheer from the red head that promptly hugged her about the waist, nuzzling his face into her middle as he looked up at her happily. She raised a single eyebrow and he released her with a nervous chuckle, hands out harmlessly.

"Right, right no touching!" He exclaimed with a grin that showed how much her threat did nothing to scare him. With a roll of her eyes she tossed her pack on the seat of the wagon and set about helping the silly murderer pack everything up. With the canvas secured over the back and everything situated, the duo set out once again. Cicero babbled on as though nothing awkward and life threatening had happened between them. If anything he seemed more excited than before, as though something she had done had endeared her to him. It didn't make her feel any safer around him. She remained on edge all day, even when they had passed a waterskin back and forth between munching on the bread and cheese she had brought with her. She felt her skin prickle about midday as they were coming to a fork in the road and she rose up from her seat. Cicero cast her a curious look and the small halfling searched the sky, feeling a heaviness settle in her chest. A soft, distant rumble confirmed her fears and she hopped down from the wagon.

"You should get your mother's coffin under cover, Cicero, we are about to have some unwanted company," She warned.

"Oh no, don't tell me! It's bards, isn't it?" He gasped, earning a laugh from the girl.

"If only," She retorted, tossing her pack onto the cart along with her travel cloak. Another roar sounded, this time closer and she trotted a good ways off from the shouting Jester that had heard the second roar for what it was.

"Dove! There's a dragon! It will eat you all up!"He hissed, flailing wildly. She cast him a playful grin and unhooked her bow.

"Not if I eat him first!" She chimed, nocking an arrow and watching the dark shape draw ever closer in wide circles.

"And they call ME crazy!" He cackled, urging the cart off the road toward a string of trees where it would be out of the line of fire. The jester turned just in time to witness Dove letting her arrow fly. The beast let out a peal of flame as the projectile struck hard into the side of its muscled neck. She tossed her bow aside, freeing the skyforge steel bastard sword from her side with an eager sort of mirth.

"Joor! Zu'u fen ald hi!" The creature roared out in its rough voice that shook the very air. Dove laughed outright, the wind from the dragons wings buffeting the grass and sending her hair dancing about her.

"Meyz ahrk unt mal siigonis!" She yelled back, clearly taunting the creature. Cicero found himself transfixed by her as she braced herself against the harsh wind that followed the beast's passing. Here was the frightened little girl that was so concerned about Cicero killing her facing something that was much more scary and dangerous without a care in the world. Interesting. Dove rolled to the side to avoid a burst of fire before turning about and breathing deeply. "FUS!"

A thick pocket of air surged from the petite warrior, catching the dragon's wing hard and sending it careening into the dirt. A pained snarl left the beast, broken bones jutting from its ruined wing. The dragon whirled to face the woman as she slowly approached it, the fires casting her in an unearthly, hellish light as an almost peaceful smile crossed her features.

"Dovahkiin!" The wounded beast spat drawing back from her in obvious fear.

"Ru, mal siigonis," She all but cooed earning another gout of flame that she deftly sidestepped. And then she was moving in close, jumping over a swiping tail. She slashed out at the creature with her blade, laughing at its frustrated attempts at attacking her. "Voth hin dinok hin zeyliik fen doj wah fey hond nol zey!"

And with that enraged snarl she slammed her blade deep into the dragon's skull. A roar died in its throat and panting hard, she yanked her weapon free, blood coating most of her front that nearly burned with its heat. Sweat beaded up on her forehead from exertion and her throat felt raw from the use of the Thu'um. It was the first time that she had ever actually used it and the urge to shout had forced it from her lips before she had time to really even think about it. She turned away from the body that had begun to crackle in death, looking up at the all but dancing Cicero who was practically bounding toward her. And then it hit her with the force of a hurricane, light and wind and voices slamming into her shaking form. She let out an almost pained moan, gritting her teeth and throwing back her head beneath the sensation. Memories and feelings rolled over her mind, images of flying, of hunting and feasting, flickered faster and faster until finally she was left kneeling on the ground, eyes wide and gooseflesh rising on every inch of skin. Cicero looked down upon her with a mixture of delight and wonder. He glanced at the clean skeleton behind her with a rueful smirk.

"A Dove that eats dragons. What a strange land we are in, Mother," he murmured before waving his hand in front of the daze looking woman's face, "Did that feel as good as it looked?"

"Hnnng, Cicero?" She groaned out weakly.

"Yeeess, little Dove?" He asked with a grin.

"Don't make me punch you," She stated before pushing herself up onto her feet. He only laughed more. After yet another dip in a stream and a change of clothes, they were on the move again and she could tell from the way the man fidgeted in his seat that he was absolutely dying to ask her about what had happened.

"Ask," She sighed finally as she braided her wet hair.

"Sooo, Cicero is not familiar with Skyrim...does everyone eat dragons? Or just the women," He asked curiously. She let out a soft snort and shook her head lightly.

"It's an old Nord tale. My father used to tell it to me before bed at night. Long ago Akatosh granted a man the soul of a dragon, giving him the power to shout like a dragon. He was called Dovahkiin, Dragonborn. There are prophecies that claim that when the black dragon Alduin the world eater appears that the Dragonborn with fight him to save the world. Apparently that is me," She explained almost bitterly. Cicero was quiet for a long moment before he turned to her with a snarky grin.

"Can I call you DragonLady?" He asked, earning a light smack to the back of his head and a sigh.

"You are lucky you're cute," She lamented, leaning back in her seat to watch the sky as it passed overhead. He all but giggled, batting his lashes at her playfully.

"Hear that mother? Dove thinks that Cicero is cute, the flatterer," He cackled.

"You really enjoy being hit, don't you?" Dove drawled only to have him send her a sinful look that hinted at things she didn't even want to think about.

"Only if you pull my hair and scream my name while you do it," He murmured in her ear, causing her to sputter and flail wildly, a bright flush across her cheeks. She had a sinking feeling that this was going to be a long journey.

"You do know that Falkreath is south, yes?" Dove remarked casually as she pulled her fur lined cloak about herself a little tighter against the evening chill.

"Of course!" Cicero replied happily, his expression as happy as ever.

"Uuuh huh. Sooo, why are we going North then?" She asked with a small smirk. He blinked at her owlishly for a long moment.

"Sightseeing!" He declared, thrusting a fist in the air enthusiastically, "Dove is in no hurry yes? Cicero wanted to explore before heading down to Falkreath. Poor Cicero won't be able to go anywhere for a long time once he takes mother to her new home, after all."

"Oh. Sounds logical," She replied with a shrug. Personally she didn't really care where they were headed. And now that she thought back on it, this way would take her away from Whiterun, while heading south would have forced her to double back past it again. Besides, she hadn't really explored much of Skyrim herself, "So where to first?"

"Cicero needs to meet with someone in Dawnstar, so that would be the best choice," He mused, tapping his lower lip with a gloved finger. Dawnstar, huh? She'd only been there once for a bear problem, but other than that, she didn't know much about it. The white haired female huddled into her cloak. She made a mental note to buy warm clothes soon. Despite it being summer, the northernmost cities would still have a fair amount of snow. Nord blood or not, she hated being overly cold. It made her cranky and sleepy. They rode in a companionable silence for a while; a miracle for Cicero, both lost in their own thoughts until they came to a fork in the road.

"Left will take us on to Dawnstar, however it looks like a storm in heading in tonight. Traveling at night may not be the best of plans," Dove said thoughtfully, eyes taking in the ominous looking snow clouds that were building overhead, "Nightgate Inn in close by. About a half an hour down the right path if you want an actual bed. Otherwise I would suggest we set up shelter soon."

"Cicero does not wish to leave poor mother all alone in the cold and an Inn would not be pleased with a coffin as luggage,"He protested, looking forlornly back at the wooden crate. She smiled ruefully and let out a soft sigh.

"Well we can't have that," Dove replied, earning a grateful smile from the man that for once seemed genuine. They situated their wagon off of the road a ways near a thick line of large pines. The white haired halfling took care to pull branches over the front to help conceal it from the road and above. The last thing they wanted was to draw the attention of bandits. Cicero was forced to tend to the horse, mainly because horses were absolutely terrified of Dove thanks to her beast blood. Settled into the shelter of the trees and the wagon with feed and water and a blanket that Dove had forced him to place on the animal's back, the shaggy brown beast of burden seemed content. His mother's coffin was carefully covered with the canvas to guard against the weather. Satisfied, the red head followed curiously after the young woman as she ducked her head underneath the pine closest to the wagon before disappearing inside completely. It was a large, old tree whose lowest branches rested on the ground and formed a cozy shelter around the base of it's wide trunk.

Cicero looked about in curious delight. It was like a tent! His companion set about clearing a space a few feet from the trunk of debris before building a small fire. At first he'd thought the tree would go up in flame, until he realized the genius behind it. The smoke filtered up through the branches and because the fire was in just the middle and kept fairly tame, the flames themselves did no harm to the green giant that they huddled beneath. Within moments the inside warmed considerably and the Jester applauded her ingenuity. Truthfully, it was Kodlak that had shown her the trick to using the old pines as a shelter but she bowed dramatically, nonetheless.

She piled up dead pine needles a little ways from the flames before having Cicero set up the bed rolls. Unfortunately she would be forced to sleep close to him thanks to the cold that had already begun to set in. The temperature would drop and even in the relative comfort of their little hideaway it was going to get very chilly. It would be a good test of trust for them, she felt. Dove fetched some snow in a tin pot, placing it over coals to boil before pulling out the deer meat she had saved along with a few spices and herbs she'd packed for this purpose. Cicero managed to produce a collection of carrots from his own pack, much to the girl's confusion. Why he had carrots and nothing else food wise was a mystery. She dumped in the meat first along with the chopped garlic nirnroot followed by the rest. The jester had curled up with a fur blanket as close to the fire as he could without climbing into the pot himself. He shivered, teeth rattling together.

"Cicero is regretting not choosing the inn suddenly," He muttered with a pout. Dove tried not to laugh, but he was far too miserable looking for her not to. Imperials and cold didn't mesh well. Especially Imperials that were new to Skyrim. Dove tested the stew before smiling, pouring a healthy amount of the steaming hot food into a bowl for him.

"Here, this will help. It's really hot, so careful," She warned as she poured her own. And of course the impatient Fool didn't listen. He fanned his mouth as his eyes watered from the heat that seared his tongue comically, earning a sigh from the woman, "Or not."

They ate quickly, Cicero gushing over how tasty it was and how lucky they were that he still had carrots for it. Still sore from the past two days, Dove slipped out of her boots and weapons, settling them well within reach of her bed roll before slipping into the soft furs. The simple, short fur top and leggings that she wore did little against the cold but it affected her much less than the red haired man so she slept closest to the outside. She didn't need her ride getting frost bite and dying on her. It was late in the night when Dove awoke, brows drawn together in confusion. She scanned the interior of the tree, shivering against the sharp cold. The fire had burned to red coals and in the dimness she noticed the lump named Cicero shivering almost violently under his bedroll. Dove was up and moving before she realized it, throwing her furs around the curled up man.

"Hey, Cicero, wake up," She murmured, shaking his shoulder gently. Bleary, golden eyes peered up at her with a lethargic sort of glaze to them.

"Nngh, Cicero is c-cold, Little Dove," He slurred out, a blue tint to his already pale lips. She bit her lower lip and let out a noise that was a mix of discomfort and reluctance. She couldn't just let him freeze to death. Being a werewolf, she had very little concerns about nudity or touching. Heck on most nights, she and several others curled together in warm puppy piles for comfort. But this man, this stranger wasn't pack, wasn't even a werewolf. Turning to throw more wood on the fire, she steeled herself. It wasn't a big deal. She would keep him alive and warm and that was all. Of course that didn't stop her from flushing scarlet and thinking far too much about being pressed against the man. Shedding her clothing quickly before she managed to talk herself out of it, the young woman pulled her bedroll against Cicero's before slipping under the furs next to him.

He had retreated back under the furs when she began tending the fire and the touch of her hand against his arm startled him into motion, his dagger flashing as he whirled to strike. He was slow, however thanks to his limbs locking up from cold and the woman snagged his wrist firmly, pulling the startled man against her side roughly.

"Settle down. I have to warm you up. You will die if you get too cold," She murmured soothingly. Cicero's limbs went slack, dagger falling harmlessly nearby as he cuddled in closer to her. Freezing toes wormed their way between her legs and his arms locked about her waist until he had effectively cocooned himself around her. It the situation hadn't been so serious Dove might have found it cute. She rubbed at this cloth covered arms and back and the jester let out a grateful groan. He snuggled his face down into her chest with a happy sigh and Dove suddenly found herself wishing the ground would swallow her whole. Her face felt hot, eyes focusing anywhere but on the head of red locks that had lodged itself under her chin.

"Sweet, warm, wonderful Dove. " He crooned out in a tone that for once held none of the madness he usually displayed. Thick, well cared for leather gloves stroked her side and a shiver of her own rolled through her limbs. He rose up slightly to look down at her with a rotten grin despite the gratitude in his gaze, "Cicero is glad we didn't stay in the inn now."

Despite her mortification, Dove couldn't help but laugh before yanking him back under the covers by a handful of his bright hair. He giggled against her collarbone as he settled down half on her. It was comfortable, aside from how embarrassing it felt for the poor girl. She felt him draw a deep breath of her scent as his breathing began to even out. And because she honestly didn't think that she could make things any more awkward than they already were, the white haired halfling ran her fingers through his surprisingly silky hair. It was so soft for a man's hair and she found herself more than a little envious of it. Her eyes drifted shut as she settled further into their makeshift bedding. Thankfully most of his shaking had subsided and he seemed much warmer.

"Thank you," She heard him mumble, his lips playing over her skin is a way that she knew was no accident. Opportunistic little bastard. Dove did her best to ignore the little flutter in her gut. She should have just let him freeze.

"Can't have you dying this early into our little trip around Skyrim, now can we?" She replied and the redhead chuckled happily. And she she felt him go entirely too still, the Imperial sucking in a deep breath. She looked down at him in confusion as he stared down at the hollow of her throat. A shaky gloved hand curled around the small obsidian pendant that rested there so innocently. She herself stiffened, wondering if he were offended by the proof of her religion displayed on her person. An almost crazed look entered his eyes and he licked his lips. Amber flicked up to fix aqua with a look that held so much heat it was a wonder that the tree hadn't caught fire. A flash fire tickled across her nerves from her scalp down to her toes, pulse kicking up into her ears.

"Sithis be praised, for you, Sister," His voice was full of darkness and everything she was told to fear and her toes curled against the sound of that near purr and the absolute adoration in his eyes. Chilled lips crushed against hers hard, wrenching a surprised sound from the woman. She was overwhelmed, her chest feeling as though it were about to explode from the force of the emotions that simple action ignited in her. Gloved hands framed her face, the scent of leather and blood and alchemy and the rich cedar laced masculine scent that was Cicero had her head swimming. A rough growl rolled from her throat and she tangled her fingers in his hair slanting her lips to allow him better access as her tongue swept over his lips. He let out a needy groan and their kiss grew almost frantic. Teeth clicked together and she wound her legs about his hips to pull him ever closer. Cicero ground his hips into her, unable to stop himself. And why would he want to? This felt wonderful! He had been alone for so very long and she was so sweet, so receptive, so...perfect. He felt his eyes grow hot as all of the loneliness, the running, the stress of the silence that never ended crashed into him with each caress of her lips.

She was not a member of the Brotherhood, he knew. He could tell from just looking at her. But the potential was there. So much beautiful potential waiting for Cicero to let it loose upon the living. It was only a plus that she worshiped the Dark Father. After laying his eyes on the mark of Sithis resting against her tanned flesh he could not stop himself. Her mouth tasted of the sweet wine she'd drank and his tongue danced against her's as he grabbed her hip with one hand and cupped her throat with the other. Dove's head swam from the assault on her lips, trying desperately to catch up with her body. She was no virgin and hadn't been for some time now, but this was nothing like before, this was... Alarmed, her slightly fanged teeth bit into his lower lip and the sharp taste of his blood flooded her taste buds. Cicero, if anything was only encouraged further, a low almost wanton moan resonating from his throat.

She pulled away, sucking in great breaths of air to quell the racing of her terrified heart. The jester looked upon her with such need that every hair on her body rose on end. She looked absolutely gorgeous that way; hair a messy white silver backdrop against her flushed, sweaty skin. Her eyes were dilated and hooded with want and fear, but the sight of his blood staining her swelled, abused lips and chin was what nearly undid him. Her tongue flicked out to clean her mouth and his eyes focused on the movement. He was entirely ignorant of the cold now, blood heated more than it had been in so very long.

"Please," He whispered, voice hoarse. Not even he really knew what he was asking, but he knew that he only wanted more of her. And then he was on his back looking up at the mostly bare branches of the inside of the pine, the soft rustle of the needles telling him that she had left. He let out a frustrated scream, slamming his palms hard into the ground as he tried to process exactly what had just happened, "Stupid, foolish, impatient Cicero!"

Dove sprinted through the almost knee deep snow, oblivious to the cold and her nudity. She needed to get away from the tree, from the man that had her so very confused. Her heart hurt in her chest and her body burned for more of what she certainly wasn't going to let it have. It wasn't the fact that she had almost given in to this man that had scared her so completely, but rather the fact that he'd made it so damn easy. The emotions she'd witnessed on his pale face had terrified her. A fun romp was one thing, but what she had seen so clearly in his amber stare was eternity. It was just as terrifying as the thought of giving into her destiny. And then, she was changing and nothing else mattered but the hunt.

It was dawn when the naked woman stepped back inside of the shelter. She had spent what remained of the night hunting and feasting and forgetting what had happened between them. Cicero hadn't slept either and had instead written about the entire encounter in his journal, reliving each and every second over and over. He'd never be able to look at pine trees the same way again. His rage at being denied had subsided rather quickly. His Dove was a skittish and wild thing. He would have to force himself to be patient. He would focus on bringing out what he knew rested under the surface of her unassuming exterior. Scaring her away now would ruin his plan to have a new more permanent companion at he and mother's side. But first, he had to convince her that he wouldn't force her so that she didn't decide to end him and be done with it. That would not do at all.

Cicero felt her eyes on him as she redressed for the day, and did his best to continue packing diligently. He heard her move up behind where he was crouched and he turned to greet her with his usual smile despite his unexplainable trepidation. As soon as he rose to his full height, he was fixed with a hard stare.

"That cannot happen again," She stated firmly. And being the person he was, he could not resist teasing her.

"What cannot happen again, Dove?" He asked, tilting his head in a curious manner. The mischievous light in his eyes ruined all pretenses of innocence. She slammed the frustrating man up against the tree trunk and bared her teeth threateningly at him. Couldn't he take anything seriously!?

"You know exactly what, Jester," She hissed out, though she could not stop her eyes from straying to his lips. He chuckled softly, his fingers brushing aside a few stray strands of hair from her face and she flushed prettily for him.

"But you want it to happen again, and that is what scares you," He stated. She swallowed hard, unnerved by how easily he could see through her. His hand caressed her face so gently that she barely registered the smooth leather against her skin,"Cicero will wait. He is very, very good at waiting."

She shuddered and backed away from him awkwardly.

"Yeah, whatever. Let's just get moving before it snows more," She stated gruffly before turning to walk away. She did not like how utterly sure of himself he was. After packing up the wagon and coaxing the horse back into the harness they were off. The snow was deep but Skyrim horses were made for it and the big Clyde tromped through it as though it were a field of daisies. The duo sat in an awkward silence, Cicero for the sake of not getting thrown off the cart and Dove because she was genuinely unhappy with him. Well, more herself. She'd almost lost her resolve when she'd confronted him and kissed him senseless. How weak was she? And for a Fool of all things?! Pathetic!

Peace, my daughter. All is well.

That voice echoed through her thoughts and she shivered from the sensation and not the brisk air. And now she was hearing things. Lovely. The voice rubbed against her insides like the softest velvet and she felt the tension slowly melt from her a little at a time until she was once again resting comfortably beside the Imperial that had begun singing a lively but morbid tune. She noticed his occasional glances at her and had a hard time not smiling at his attempt to cheer her up, or at least distract her. And then she paid attention to the lyrics.

"And I found you tongue-tied in my twisted little brain. You couldn't crack a smile, I didn't catch your name. I don't blame you for walking away. I'd do the same if I saw me. I swear it's not contagious

In four short steps we can erase this," He sang merrily and her hands gripped the wooden seat below her until her knuckles turned white, "Step one - slit my throat, Step two - play in my blood, Step three - cover me in dirty sheets and run laughing out of the house, Step four - stop off at the Sea of Ghosts and rinse your crimson hands, You took me hostage and made your demands, I couldn't meet them so you cut off my fingers, one by one.

"This could be love, This could be love for fire forevermore," Cicero sang, his golden eyes staring over at the white haired girl with all of the certainty in the world and a smile that made the color in her face drain away. Shit.

Dovazhul translation:

Joor! Zu'u fen ald hi! : Mortal! I will destroy you!

Meyz ahrk unt mal siigonis! : Come and try, little lizard!

Ru, mal siigonis : Run, little lizard

Voth hin dinok hin zeyliik fen doj wah fey hond nol zey! : With your

death, your brethren will learn to stay away from me!


	2. Roses and Rot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cicero and Dove reach Dawnstar and Dove's instinct to help lands her in more trouble than she'd bargained for.

Two:: Roses and Rot

A/N:: Just a short one. Enjoy.

The trip to Dawnstar was long, cold, and awkward. Claret (Dove), had lapsed into a wary sort of silence, unlike the jester that she traveled with who had taken it upon himself to sill said silence with his spontaneous observations. Cicero was, unfortunately, entirely too observant. This of course meant that he couldn't go more than a few heartbeats without opening his mouth and spouting out whatever he thought, appropriate or otherwise. But at least he had sensed her murderous glare and stopped trying to serenade her. The white haired woman had taken to reading distractedly as she perched in the seat under a furred blanket that was draped about the both of them. It did fine keeping most of the wind out but from the looks of things the mostly fair weather from the past three nights was coming to an end. Another storm seemed to be kicking up and the white haired halfling was NOT about to end up in another situation like before.

Her face flushed prettily at the thought of the red haired Imperial's cold lips assaulting her own and the color darkened further as she remembered her own less than intelligent actions. She'd kissed him back, if kissing was what you could even call it at this point.

"Good book?" Cicero asked from his place at the reigns, looking for all the world as innocent as a butterfly. She snapped the book shut with a noise that was strangled and huffed. The bastard KNEW what she was thinking about. And he fucking loved it! The furrows on her brow deepened as his innocent facade gave way to the sinful leer that she had felt before she'd seen.

"Shutup," She grouched and he roared with laughter, causing the color to rise to the tips of her ears and butterflies to tickle about her chest. His laugh was boisterous, oddly charming in a way, and if she hadn't been internally dying from embarrassment, she would have laughed with him. Infectious. That was the word she would use to describe Cicero. And he would describe her as cute. Cutely naive, with a dash of prudish. She'd come around, he figured. But that of course meant that he needed to get as much enjoyment out of her self awareness as possible while he could. Granted, he half expected her to get fed up and eat him.

The thick pines along the road parted to open sky, the day just beginning to claw its way beneath the horizon. Dawnstar, a cozy, distinctly quiet town lay nestled in an orderly semicircle in the valley surrounding a small cover that pushed into the snow covered land from the Sea of Ghosts. Dove had grown still, her unnaturally bright eyes absorbing the scene with relief. An Inn. Thank Sithis. It seemed that their luck wasn't all bad. The streets were quiet as the wagon clattered its way to the large stable that sat to the side of the Windpeak Inn. Dove recalled it from the last visit she'd made here, though it had been several years ago. She and Farkas had been sent out to take care of a very large, very angry bear that had gotten a taste for men. The beast had been very clever, and the two of them had spent a good two days tracking and killing it. She hadn't really explored the village other than the inn and the Jarl's home so she was looking forward to being able to take her time and look around.

There was a sleepy looking stable hand mucking stalls that offered to help them settle in and after much coaxing, Cicero allowed for the cart to be unloaded and taken inside. It took the three of them and one other man that had seen them struggling to get the large coffin down and into the warmth of the Inn. Cicero had refused to let his mother stay in the stables, refused to let the coffin leave his sight. Dove wondered at his devotion to her remains. Genuine, true madness had shown in his golden eyes at the mere mention of leaving the wooden box's side. What had he suffered through, what terrible thing had happened to the woman that had birthed him that made him so very protective? Claret had sensed that there was something not right with the normally happy man from the moment they had met. Life had not been kind to him. Exactly how unkind was anyone's guess and the white haired woman had known enough not to pry. Instead, she had fished out a chunk of her savings and offered the sum to the stable hand to ensure the careful handling of the dead woman's container.

The coffin was massive and had to be made of metal with how heavy it had been. Dove herself shouldered as much of the weight as she could without setting off any alarms. The last thing that she needed was for the men to get curious. Werewolves were physically stronger in both human and in wolf form. Dove had always been strong, but she'd noticed once in the presence of the dragon she'd slain that her strength had grown ten fold. Taking the two souls had filled her with a power that seemed infinite. She knew that a lot of that feeling was just the rush of taking them into herself, the adrenaline that surged through every cell in her body like the wildest of rivers and set her limbs ablaze. She knew that she could carry the coffin on her own despite its awkward shape. And she could do it without breaking a sweat. How she knew that was anyone's guess.

Muscle memory. That was the only thing that she could compare it to. It was as though she remembered being a dragon and having the strength to move mountains. Every now and then she noticed that her thoughts would catch on something, be it significant or trivial and the ...thoughts, or memories of the beasts she had taken into herself would filter up through the cacophony that was her own subconscious and supply her with knowledge. Like the coffin. She also knew without knowing that Dawnstar was close to an excellent place to catch fish and that the large hills had once been part of a mountain range that was no longer here. It was disorienting.

The Innkeeper sat them up in a couple of rooms, Dove upstairs in the room closest to the fire and Cicero the cellar. He had opted to stay near the coffin, informing the Innkeeper that he was more than fine there. The Inn was cozy, warm, and even in the cellar there was a secondary fireplace, so Dove wasn't concerned for the Imperial. Not that she would be concerned either way. Cicero was the last person that she was going to fuss over. Right. So the Innkeeper had offered up one of the spare beds in the back of the cellar. The workers stayed down there, each bed sectioned off with a little wooden screen for the illusion of privacy. His mother's coffin rested neatly on the floor next to his bed and the little fool had remained there when Dove left him.

He had mentioned something about making sure that his mother was tended to and it taking him a while. She shuddered. Tended to? Just what was he doing with a corpse? Preserving it possibly? She knew that the priests of Arkay went to great lengths to care for the dead. Perhaps Cicero did the same for his mother? True, he mentioned that they had traveled a long way so it would make sense that he would put effort into preventing her decay. And now that she thought back on it, she hadn't scented even the smallest bit of rot from the coffin and that was impressive. He was less squeamish than Dove, that was for sure.

The road weary woman trudged back upstairs to deposit her things in her temporary room with a relieved groan. Her ass was more than a little happy to not be harassed by the wooden plank she'd been riding on for the past week or so. Dove stretched languidly and changed from the thick furs into something more comfortable, wandering out into the main room to seek a hot meal and the lull of the fire pit in the inn's center. The Innkeeper's daughter was more than happy to dish her up a bowl of thick potato soup and a plate of freshly caught salmon. Tucked into a wide, well worn, comfy chair by the fire with a bottle of mead and her meal, Claret was about as happy as a person could get. And of course, because some deity somewhere hated her guts, her peace couldn't last.

"Erandur, I thought you said that you could fix this!"

Dove sighed. She had a distinct feeling that she was going to be dragged into whatever altercation was happening. Why? That sort of thing tended to happen to her. Alot. She observed the scene over the rim over her soup bowl that she held close to her chin as she spooned steaming bites of cheese and potato and bacon into her eager mouth. She was fairly certain that she was going to propose to the woman that cooked this soup.

"Please, calm yourselves. I know you are tired, I know that your dreams are haunted with nightmares, but please, you must keep faith in Lady Mara," was the soothing voice of a tall dark elf dressed in the robes of a priest. Mara huh? Dove cocked a single brow curiously. What on Nirn did Mara have to do with dreams? There was something...shady about the Dunmer. An anxiousness, an alertness to his eyes that didn't match his peaceful demeanor. He looked more than a little strung out. Desperate. And desperate meant coin, usually in large sums. She'd spent a fair amount on the Inn and would need to make up for it somehow, she supposed. Her gaze flitted about the room curiously then, noting a weariness, a worn look that hung over all of the Inn's occupants. Dreams. What could make an entire town lose sleep though? True there was a war brewing and that weighed heavily on everyone, but this seemed a little too...unnatural. The Inn was packed with somber, sleepy looking people of all ages, and they clustered about murmuring unhappily to one another.

Odd. Alright, she thought, I'll bite. Dinner gone, mead in hand, the half elf wandered over to the priest that had been staring broodily into the flames, lost to thought. She plastered a warm smile on her rounded face and tilted her head up at him.

"Excuse me, but is something bothering you?" He soft voice jerked him from his troubling thoughts and the priest shook himself before meeting her smile with a weary one of his own. It didn't reach his eyes.

"A-ah, forgive me, I haven't been quite myself lately. No one in Dawnstar has for some time now," Erandur began. He looked like he wanted to tell her everything, but like everyone in trouble, he didn't seem to know where to start and was playing hard to get. She hated that.

"You need help and I am helpful. Tell me what I can do," She offered with a knowing chuckle that had him blinking down at her in surprise.

"Are you sure? This task may be quite...trying," He hedged, a spark of hope igniting in his large red eyes. Dove resisted rolling her own.

"I could use the coin. If you need something slain, retrieves, whatever, I am offering my services. Let me help you, Priest. From the looks of things this town needs it," She added and he sighed in resignation.

"Ever hear of Vaermina?"

The next time that she decided to ignore her danger sense and help someone, she was going to ask for the nearest person to punch her. Hard. Erandur was lying, or at least, trying to. He was very obvious about it and after fighting through skeletons, draugr, and being sent through time using some sort of potion (which she was certain would have some sort of nasty after effect later that she would regret), Dove was fresh out of nice.

The small woman spun the priest about and fixed him with an unhappy glare, the glowing barrier that surrounded the skull. She'd seen what he had done in the past, watched him trap his brethren in the temple and leave them for dead. But why had he hid it from her? Why had he waited so long to set things right?

"Look, Priest," She said the word like a curse, " I know that you were one of Vaermina's followers so let's get something straight. I am tired, I stink like a horker's ass, and I am not in a very good mood, so lying to me is a very, very bad idea. As in, the next thing out of your mouth that I don't like will put me this much closer to throwing you off of this damned cliff that you made me climb. Understand?"

"I… am sorry, Serah. I was ashamed of my involvement. Vaermina had been power, a sense of belonging. But what she had tried to do was wrong, so very wrong and I couldn't let her destroy innocents, could not let her have the skull," He stammered, holding his hands up in surrender to the angry woman before him. " I knew that if you had known of my involvement that you never would have helped me."

"Oh you did, did you?" She snarked, thumbing her blade's hilt, "You know nothing about me, Priest. I would have helped the people regardless of your fuck ups."

He looked surprised, and then humbled, running and hand over his face with a small smile.

"I am relieved then. Let me break the ritual, let me stop this and then it will be done, I swear it," He implored her. And a voice stirred in the back of her head, feeling like a cold caress over her senses. The room narrowed only to Erandur whom had turned to stride up the steps to the pedestal where the skull sat and to the voice. It was like the voice she had heard on the road, but...not. This voice was cold, demanding, arrogant, and sinister. She, for it was female, was angry.

Kill him. Kill the priest. He lies. He is deceiving you Champion, he will betray you.

Her brows drew together in confusion. What?

My powerful, perfect Champion, kill him. Take the skull for yourself and I will grant you my favor.

Her voice had changed, grown seductive and lulling and Dove swallowed hard. Her heart crawled up into her throat and she shook against the sensations that rolled through her skin. What was this person, this being that could affect her so with just a voice? Fear clawed at her insides like little rats trying to find a way out, thousands of phantom insects sending gooseflesh over her skin. The difference between the warm, mothering voice and this one was night and day.

Kill him, Champion and I will give you power. So much power.

Claret liked to think that she was above the lure of power, but she knew that was a lie. Some part of her, the dragon part, she assumed, craved it like wine. She could not help it. Her feet shuffled forward, hands tightening around the hilt of her weapon. Claret swallowed hard, palms sweating from the effort it took to resist. Her feet were moving on their own accord, mind lost in that voice. Images flashed through her mind and the scent of roses and rot, a sickeningly sweet and gagging stench suffocated her senses. She couldn't draw breath without more of that awful scent tainting her lungs and she staggered.

Kill him, my sweet Claret.

Images of her murdering the priest bathing the room in his blood and cradling the skull close like a precious thing flooded her mind and she shuddered. A woman came to her in those images, her features unseen but Claret knew without seeing that she was both heartbreakingly beautiful and absolutely terrifying. Hands that she knew belonged to the woman, the voice, caressed Claret's fingers that had tightened to white fists around the hilt of her bastard sword. Long, elegant digits played over the seams of her fingers lewdly and Claret felt her face flush with a mixture of revulsion and uncomfortable lust. The stench had become a perfume, and the voice a song, her name the sweetest of endearments. Claret had taken two steps up to the platform before she had even realized it.

Of what do you dream, my beautiful Claret?

Images of her mother and father swam to mind, her family the Companions, of having the strength to save them, to keep them alive and the voice dangled that power in front of her like a piece of honey candy. Right there. Stab the priest and all of it would be hers. All of it. And the woman the voice belonged to would love her, give her anything in the world and beyond.

Claret jerked suddenly, a sense of wrongness and rebellion swelled up inside of her like some roaring fire in contrast to the cold of the woman. Gentle, loving, mothering arms went about Claret and the half elf could breathe again. Mother.

No! You will obey!

Claret's head began to clear her mouth drawn into a firm, unhappy line. No one gave her orders without earning the right to. And then with a loud shriek of magic and heat, the voice all of it was gone. Claret sank to her knees, shivering violently as her stomach rebelled and her dinner painted the stone in front of her. Sweat trickled down her brow and she was vaguely aware of Erandur casting healing spells on her as she heaved over and over. She would never be able to smell roses ever again.

"It is alright, it is over," He murmured soothingly, the dust that was the skull littering the floor. " She contacted you, didn't she?"

Dove nodded wordlessly, drawing in great gasps of musty air as the spells slowly began to take effect.

"You are very strong willed to have resisted her. Vaermina is very...persuasive," Erandur praised, clearly impressed by the small warrior. "If I may ask...what did she offer you?"

"To be her Champion, her lover, the world," Dove replied sardonically, rinsing her mouth with water from her waterskin.

"And you said no?" The priest marveled.

"I don't like being told what to do," She half joked with a laugh that earned a chuckle from the dunmer. The trip back to the Inn was blissfully silent, Claret opting to travel back alone rather than linger in the temple that Erandur had vowed to repurpose as a temple of Mara. She planned to check on him later down the road to ensure he kept his word. Dawnstar looked better already, the village sleeping and peaceful. Stumbling into the inn, Claret found herself pinned to the door the moment she closed it. Cicero. Angry, worried eyes glared down at her from inches away, clear of madness, but full of questions.

"You left," He stated in a low whisper. The Inn was quiet, all of the patrons gone or in bed, even the staff absent, no doubt finally catching up on well deserved sleep. She swallowed hard, all too aware of his closeness, his gloved hand about the column of her throat and the heat he put off. He smelled freshly bathed, the lingering scent of nightshade and sweet oil mingled with his clean scent that still carried that lingering tang of old blood. For the second time that evening she felt her pulse kick up into a frantic pattering but for an entirely more pleasant reason. He was almost pressed entirely against her, separated by a matter of inches, save for the hand on her throat. His other hand had taken up residence to the left of her head on the door frame and in the faint orange light of the embers, he looked almost feral. His hair was still damp, clinging to his pale, bare shoulders. She could not stop her eyes from rolling along the lean, yet surprisingly muscled torso that was bared before her, littered with white scars and nearly as white as the snow outside.

There was a surprising masculinity in him that his attitude and attire hid, but it was oh so very obvious to her now and she licked her lips nervously, noting that his hand was less of a hold now and had begun caressing her neck in a way that had every hair on her skin raising up.

"I was taking care of a little pest problem," She answered finally, voice a broken whisper, trying not to think about the hand that now cradled her jaw and the half nude male's closeness to her. He looked relieved then, slumping from his somewhat aggressive stance.

"Cicero was worried that his Dove had left poor Cicero all alone," He murmured, and his fear shown in his big honey eyes so much so that it took every ounce of her self control to not pull the jester close into a hug, anything to take that haunted look from his face. She sighed softly and gave him a small, tight lipped smile. He seemed to visibly relax from her smile alone.

"Does this look like Falkreath to you?" She asked with a raised brow. He grinned then and pulled her into the curl of his arms. Mere seconds later, though he was holding her back at arms reach with his nose screwed up.

"Cicero thinks that Dove needs a bath. Maybe two," He complained with a smirk and she smacked him with a pout.

The bathing room was still warm from the long banked fire and after stoking the coals back to life in the small hearth, Claret settled a few buckets of water over the blaze to heat for the bath. Cicero watched her from the doorway, his eyes a physical touch on her form as she worked. She knew he was curious about where she had gone. Honestly, she wasn't sure if she could talk about it let alone if she wanted to. It was...crazy. Although, she thought, glancing back at the redhead over her shoulder, who better to talk about crazy things than with a crazy man?

"Vaermina was giving the town nightmares. I stopped her," She stated simply and to the point. Cicero raised an eyebrow at her.

"Daedric Princes are...troublesome, sneaky, sneaky, things," He mused, watching her carefully. "dangerous."

She swallowed and busied herself with unclasping her clock and the steel armor she had donned before going to the temple. A second pair of hands joined hers and she flinched. He ignored it in favor of unhooking her shoulder pauldrons. Again the scent of roses danced across her thoughts and she felt her stomach roil. Cicero noticed her paling face and took her small hand between his, pressing his thumbs into the center of her palm firmly in a circular motion. The feeling eased beneath the touch of the jester. His hands were sure, the soft leather of his gloves oddly comforting.

"Why do you wear your gloves to bed?" She asked curiously. He chuckled softly and released her, rising to his feet somewhat stiffly.

"One day, maybe Cicero will answer that question. Goodnight, sweet Dove," He replied softly, a strange sadness creeping over his features. And then he was gone, leaving her feeling suddenly cold.

After soaking herself in the large copper basin that sat in its own room off to the back of the Inn and scrubbing away all of the grime she had accumulated, the white haired woman collapsed in her rented bed with a happy groan. She snuggled into the thick furs and let sleep carry her off.


	3. The Pale

It was close to midday before anyone, Dove included emerged from dreamland. She felt absolutely awful. Her dreams had been plagued by a mixture of Hircine's hunting grounds and fields of wilting black roses and after waking with quiet gasps of terror and panic every couple hours, she finally fell to a blissfully dead sleep free of thoughts. Her head throbbed behind her eyes and every limb was sore from her thrashing. She was not going to tolerate this sort of thing in the future. Sleep was already a difficult thing for her as it was. She didn't need some scorned nightmare admirer poking her all night long as well. Grumpy, the dragonborn wandered out into the main room dressed in a comfy fur lined dress looking for food and drink. Erandur had paid her far more than she could have expected the night before and despite that, she was still convinced that it hadn't been worth it.

The Inn was relaxed, but considerably more up beat than the previous day. A cheerful Inn keeper had a hot bowl of sweet berry oat meal and a cheese pastry waiting for her when she flopped into a chair with a groan.

"On the house, Lass! And don't you worry about the room fee, stay as long as you like," He gushed, looking fresh and well rested for what had to have been months of sleepless agony. "Erander told us everything that you did for us and it isn't much but know that we will always be in your debt."

"N-no you don't have to-" Claret had begun, only to be cut off by the aging man who grinned at her warmly and wandered back to work. The warm tingly feeling in her gut from his kindness chased away much of her miserable feelings. Maybe it was a little worth it. After finishing her meal and nursing a healing potion for her head, she wandered downstairs to look for Cicero. The redhead was nowhere to be found, however. A small note with surprisingly neat hand writing was neatly in place over his bed, however.

Gone to meet a friend, Cicero will return to his sweet Dove very soon!

A friend? Her mouth tilted suspiciously into a confused expression. What friend would Cicero have up here? With a shrug she pocketed the note and decided that this would be a good time to wander about Dawnstar and restock her supplies. She wasn't sure where they would be headed next, and knowing what little she knew about the jester, Cicero was fairly spontaneous. Claret strapped her weapon in place and snagged up the steel wolf armor that marked her as a companion in its compact pack and headed out. She was hoping there would be a vendor or a blacksmith that would give her a good price on it or at the very least repair it. The same set had protected her since she was little older than a girl, given to her the day that she received her wolf blood. She had been thirteen, a year older than the twins. It had been repaired so much that she doubted much of it was the same metal as when it had been given to her. Light, lined with thick black wolf fur, it was elegantly crafted though her's had definitely seen better days. She had been needing to take it to Eorland for a little over a year. Thick gouges from wild beasts, nicks and close shaves resulting in dents and broken straps riddled the old armor.

The blacksmiths of Dawnstar had seemed both impressed by the craftsmanship and mortified by the state of the armor. The husband and wife duo had fussed over it and ultimately determined that repairing it was far above their skill level. Eorland's work was legendary and his distinctive hand was easy to spot. It was a taboo for another smith to muck about with something of his. So with a heavy heart, she sold them the piece. It wasn't going to do her any good and was becoming more of a hindrance than a help in battle. The smiths instead offered to make her a nice, light, yet sturdy set that would make a nice alternative.

After visiting the blacksmith, general store, and apothecary, Claret was stocked with potions and supplies, including a small, yet spacious fur and leather tent. She'd learnt her lesson after the tree incident and didn't want to deal with any more frozen jesters in the future. Everywhere she went, she received praise and thanks, gifts, and discounts from those she passed. Normally she would have fled to the hills long ago, not exactly the best at accepting praise from others. She had invested some of the substantial coin she'd been given in the shops that had refused to charge her and with the common workers and shopkeepers singing her praises, she was feeling pretty good with herself.

The white haired woman wandered back toward the inn, laden with parcels and goodies, intent upon packing everything away and showing her earned take to Cicero. It was nearly dusk again, so surely he would be back by then. She was a little baffled by how her pulse kicked up at the thought of the silly man, unaware of the soft smile that curved her lips as she strode up the steps to the Inn. She was very curious about the mysterious conversation from the other night about the man's hands. She'd never seen them bare and it was a little perplexing. Claret had always been a curious one, and nothing had her curiosity raising it's head faster than avoidance. But the sad, self deprecating look on his features kept her from prying. More and more she was convinced that something terrible had happened to this man. She stowed her belongings in her room along with the reminder to pick up her new armor from the smith tomorrow afternoon. Before wandering downstairs with butterflies bouncing about her insides.

All that met her sight was the lonely coffin and his empty bed. Odd. There was no sign of him upstairs and she knew he would not have let her walk past without pestering her so he still had to be out with his friend. Curious as to what would keep him from his mother's side for so long, Claret sat down on the bed beside the freshly resealed wood. Clearly he had taken the time to pry the boards free to apply preserving oils to the body before carefully replacing them again. Who was she, she wondered. What happened to her? Why Skyrim? She had noticed Cicero conversing with the coffin often and thought little of it. A coping mechanism perhaps? He had mentioned that he had been alone for a very long time. She could not imagine such a thing. True, she enjoyed peaceful solitude as much as the next person, but when in mourning, in a foreign land, with no one at all to speak to all while coping with the fact that everyone you encountered could feel and see the madness in you? It was...tragic.

Did she pity him? Maybe a little. There was a lot more respect there than she could have expected. He was a dangerous, crazy, murderer of that she was certain, but he was surviving. He was honoring his mother, something that touched her greatly and he was oddly functional despite his madness. Was Dove about to tell him that she found him impressive? Hells no. Her hand rested gently atop the wooden crate and a small smile lifted her lips as she tilted her head.

"Nice to meet you, whomever you were. Your son is quite late, you know. I do hope you scold him for it later," She remarked conversationally, chuckling at the silliness of speaking to a dead woman. That now familiar brush of a touch in her mind had her stilling and her eyes widening slightly in alarm. It was the sensation of her mother running a soft brush through her hair, the scent of nightshade and deathbell flowers and vanilla and she jerked her hand back in surprise and mild fear. She hadn't expected a response. She shook her hand out as if the action would chase away the feeling. It didn't. If anything, the presence drew closer, not imposingly so like Vaermina, but patiently and oddly enough comfortingly. Claret drew a deep calming breath.

"It was you, wasn't it?" She whispered softly, " You chased that Daedric bitch away, didn't you?"

The only response she received was a reassuring spiritual hug, the feeling of protective, loving arms offering comfort the way only a mother could. Rather than pulling back from it, Claret allowed it to happen, relaxing in the steady hold that seemed to tingle warmly over her skin despite nothing being there. It was several hours later that she awoke in Cicero's bed, one hand resting lightly atop the coffin. Sleepily she sat up, wiping drool from the side of her mouth as she blearily looked about. A yawn ripped free from her and she stretched languidly, feeling a million times better than ever. For once dreams of the hunt had not visited her, in fact she hadn't even remembered falling asleep. Instead she had dreams of a cool, peaceful meadow swathed in moonlight and of laying with her head cradled in the lap of her mother who had hummed and ran fingers through Claret's hair the whole night.

The werewolf gave the coffin a final, curious glance before heading upstairs. It was still dark, but not for much longer. Where was that Fool? Worry gnawed at her insides and she hated herself for it. He was a grown man, clearly he could handle himself. There was no reason for her to be concerned for him. Besides, he had tried to kill her. Stubbornly keeping these thoughts in mind she went to sort through her belongings and decided to give in and finally write up a letter for Kodlak. He was doubtlessly worried for her and she owned him an explanation. The old man was practically a second father for her, after all. However she did not want to give away too much and give them a clue as to where she was.

Kodlak,

Something important happened and I have to go away for a while. I do not know when I will be back. Please do not worry. I am keeping myself under control and will be careful. Take care of yourself.

C

PS: Tell Vilkas that I said he is a Mammoth turd.

She smirked, knowing that Kodlak would never relay her message to the older of the twins, nor could she imagine him ever saying the word "turd" ever. But it would make him laugh regardless she was sure. Sealing the letter carefully, she set it aside to give to a courier later. Bags organized and packed, she headed out into the main room again to eat. Dawn had broken and a trickle of workers were heading in for breakfast before a long day in the mines. And still no Cicero.

She had wandered about the town for a couple hours doing odds and ends for people mostly as a means of having something to do to occupy herself to keep from worrying about the little shit. A guard stopped her not far from the crazy museum and she blinked owlishly up at his imposing helmet.

"You there, the woman who saved our town, the Jarl wishes to have a word with you," He reported and nodding dumbly and wondering what on nirn she had done wrong now, she followed after the man. The Jarl's long house was dim and full of various townsfolk, all of which watching her with expectant looks that had her feeling more than a little insecure. What in the world had she done now?

"Ah, there you are, " Was the aged voice of Dawnstar's Jarl, Skald. Dove approached a little hesitant, wary of the imposing men that stood to either side of the old man, " Well, come closer, girl, let's get a good look at you."

She stepped into the natural light from the glass windows above and swallowed hard as she stared up at the Jarl in his carved chair, feeling much like she'd been in this situation before already.

"For your services to us and to the people of my hold I have a little gift for you, girl, Gregor! Where is that big- ah, there you are! Here, take him. Also as my right as Jarl I give you permission to purchase land in my hold as well as give you this weapon from my armory." The crotchety old man stated while motioning for the man at his side to hand her a rather large greatsword that shimmered with enchantment in the light. Her fingers closed around it reluctantly, knowing that to refuse was a terrible insult. A man easily three times her size stood before her like some imposing mountain, bald head shining just as much as the sword.

"B-but?" Dove floundered, looking from the sword, to the sea of faces and the big man that watched her with all the reverence of a devoted puppy.

"Oh, right, you are my Thane now. Good work. And if you are bored go take care of a pesky giant for my up the hill a ways, would you?" Skald chuckled, clearly amused by her bewildered state, " Be careful with that giant, try not to get stepped on."

"Y-yes, my Jarl," She replied finally, any excuse to get the hells out of there. Ebony great sword in hand, smiling and nodding uncomfortably to the cheering crowd, Claret made a hasty retreat for the door with the large nord shadowing her. In a daze she strode down to the water, holding the big weapon before herself and resisting the urge to chuck the damn thing out to sea.

Fucking Thane. Again. What was it with everyone and wanting to tack titles to her all of the sudden. The people of Dawnstar had no clue that she was the Dragonborn, hell, none of them even knew her real name and it was still happening! All that she did was help out a priest for some coin. Okay and maybe a few townsfolk.

"Gregor?" She asked and the big man snapped to attention like a well disciplined lacky.

"Yes, my Thane, how can I serve you," He asked, looked eager and far too willing to please. She vomited in her mouth a little.

"The next time I decide to be nice and do something to help anyone, I want you to punch me as hard as you can," She stated seriously and he gave her a disbelieving look.

"A-as you command, my Thane," He replied, trying to hide the smirk growing on his lips. She glared at him halfheartedly and he chuckled outright. "Not what you are used to, I take it?"

"Not even close, " She grumbled. Cicero was going to laugh at her, she just knew it. The white haired woman sighed softly and ran a hand over her face in frustration. "Let's go kill something."

"As you wish, my Thane," He confirmed, still chuckling. They stopped by the blacksmith and with more than a little embarrassment, suffered through Gregor's insistence that he help her strap on her armor while they fashioned a sturdy back holster for the great sword. The armor was interesting. It was crafted using a combination of the steel taken from the armor she'd given them and thick cured leather with accents of quicksilver folded into the steel. It was a signature of Seren, the blacksmith's pregnant wife. A thick hood of the wolf fur was attached to the cuirass, giving it a maned appearance. Sleek, with minimal embellishment, the armor hugged tight like a glove to her figure, the metal and leather placed for functional movement and speed in a fight. Leg guards rose up the thigh high boots with plates of more of the quicksilver swirled steel riveted to the leather all the way up. The leather cuirass fit over a long leather coat that would help add an extra layer of defense and protect her from the chill. The white haired woman plaited her hair into two large braids that hung down her front to keep them out of the way and fitted her daggers at her hips along with her belt of potions and necessities. She looked like a black and silver nightmare waiting to happen.

Fully kitted out, she and her new housecarl headed out to hunt down a giant and test out her new weapon. She was already contemplating ways of ditching the big Nord. She knew letting him accompany she and Cicero was a bad idea. He was a good man, from what she could tell, seasoned, but not violent. He seemed like a peaceful, fairly docile man, which was very odd when looking at his sheer size. Cicero would eat him alive. Hell, even she might! But then, what did she know? She had thought that she could handle Cicero and she'd been wrong about that so she felt that she couldn't fully trust her own judgement.

Fighting the giant had gone far too easily, the Pale Blade ( an ironic name considering the color) had cleaved through the unfortunate thing like so much soft meat. The enchantment on the blade, much to her delight, was electrical in nature and there was a giddy thrill that raced through her veins at the tingling crackle of energy that snaked harmlessly up her arms. It was surprisingly light for a great sword and handled well. She'd never quite found a great sword that had fit her well, hence why she had leaned toward bastard swords and daggers. But this, she could get used to. Chatting companionably about the weapon and combat in general to Gregor, the duo made their way back, the long tails of her coat flaring out into the wind behind her. Apparently there hadn't been a Thane able to use the Pale blade in several decades. That was oddly satisfying to hear. She stopped outside of the inn, turning to face the warrior.

"Thank you for coming with. Report this to the Jarl for me would you? I am going to check on my companion," She stated with a small smile. Gregor slapped a fist to his chest in compliance and bounded off to complete her order, happy to be given something to do. She rubbed her temples with a sigh and watched the clouds of her breath rise into the darkened sky. Almost night again. She was hoping that Cicero would be waiting for her inside and her insides squirmed at the thought. What would he think about all of this?

Dove pushed her way inside to a boisterous room of patrons enjoying the evening. Cheers and raised mugs to her passing caused her to grin stupidly and shyly escape into her room. She heaved a sigh and fell against the door. She was flattered by the attention, but already tired of it.

"Dove has been a busy girl, hasn't she?" The deep tone of Cicero's voice was something he rarely used but the sound of it in the small room and so close had a shiver rolling through her.

"Where have you been?" She grouched, pushing aside the thrilling relief she felt at seeing the jester lounging on her bed in favor of displaying her irritation. He grinned widely at her and pressed an index finger to his lips with a playful gleam in his eyes.

"It's a secret, little Dove," He giggled, hopping to his feet. Well someone was in a good mood. The jester strolled around her approvingly as if he were looking at a prized cow to buy. "The new armor is nice, and oooh, look at the new shiny sharp pointy, sword!"

"The Jarl gave it to me, for being useful," She explained, watching him out of the corner of her eye. Oddly enough, she wasn't afraid of him anymore, at least, not in the way she should have been. When had that happened? She had begun unhooking the armor, feeling the deft fingers of Cicero mimic her own. "He also gave me a follower."

The jester's fingers paused momentarily, fumbling just an instant, but enough that Dove noticed.

"Oh? And where is this follower?" He asked, now pressed close behind her as he unlaced the side of her cuirass. Her breath hitched in her throat and her pulse jumped at his warm breath on the back of her neck.

"Running an errand for me. Had to get him to stop trailing after me for a little while at least," She sighed out, tossing her gauntlets to the table. Cicero chuckled softly and unhooked the sword from her back, setting it against the wall. When had he gotten so damn familiar with her? Even when she was with her pack, no one helped her remove her armor, save for maybe Kodlak or when she was gravely wounded. And yet, the man that she had known for a little over a week made it seem routine, comfortable. Odd. She pulled the armor free and then undid her boots, stretching out her sock covered feet before glancing at the jester from over her shoulder. He looked quieter than normal, subdued suddenly.

"Is sweet Dove leaving poor Cicero?" He breathed out, fingers twinning in one of her braids. He heart clenched tight at the loneliness in his voice. She sighed and fixed him with an irritated look.

"Why are you constantly expecting me to run off at the first chance?" She asked, a soft growl tinting her annoyed words.

"Because Dove did try to leave Cicero before!" He replied, his expression becoming even more hurt. Dove groaned and ran a hand through her bangs.

"You tried to KILL me, or did you forget about that little detail. Anyone would leave! And stop giving me that look! You know exactly why I did what I did, you little brat!" She hissed, growing even more irritated when the red head started cackling at her. Oh how she wanted to hit him. His arms went about her then, the Imperial resting his chin on her shoulder as he nuzzled into her hair and breathed in her scent.

"I missed you," He sighed softly, relaxed against her completely, tension he didn't even know he had seeping out of him with every moment that he hugged her. She was surprised with his actions, and yet didn't fight him and in fact, eased into his embrace, her hands sliding up underneath his arms to hold his back gingerly. The wolf in her stilled under the feel of attention, taking comfort in the closeness. It was actually something that was always difficult for her. She was definitely not a lone wolf, at least, not a good one. She instinctively craved the comfort and security of pack. Though when her wolf had grown to accept Cicero as that, was beyond her. With him she was less panicked, less claustrophobic of the world around her. It was so very strange.

"I missed you too," She replied finally, swallowing hard. The jester hugged her tighter then, making a happy noise that had her smiling softly. His gloved hands smoothed over her back in small circles and she let out a low growl, " But if you do not get that hand of yours away from my ass, I am going to hurt you."

He threw back his head in laughter and released her to look down at her scowling face.

"Can't blame Cicero for trying," He shrugged helplessly with that impish, rotten smile of his and she shook her head at him with an amused expression. He was too much. The two of them ate and talked about her day in the main room, Cicero refusing to tell her anything about his excursion other that it being "very informative" and "worth it" or whatever that meant. He was enthralled with her tale about the Nightcaller temple, especially the potion that had her travel back into the memories of the past and teleported her from one place to another. It sounded absolutely crazy. So of course he loved it. Partway through their meal, Gregor showed up, and being unable to not reward the man, she paid for his dinner and he joined them by the fire.

"Gregor, this is Cicero, my friend, " She stated in introduction of the two. Gregor seemed skeptical about the red haired Imperial, eyeing the jester motley with curious humor. The big nord held out a hand in greeting with a friendly smile that surprised the white haired Thane. Most people would have been put off by Cicero. Cicero shook the man's hand enthusiastically, always happy to meet a friendly face, despite his oddness. He may have been a murderer, but that didn't mean that he couldn't enjoy company.

"So, tell Cicero what exactly a housecarl does, Gregor," Cicero asked curiously. If the nord was bothered by his odd way of speaking, Gregor didn't show it.

"It is my duty and honor to protect my Thane, Lady Dove, and all that she owns with my life," Gregor stated with a grin and a swig of his ale, " I am her shield and sword and where she goes, my place is by her side."

Dove had paled with each word. She knew this speech, had heard it from Lydia, the housecarl they had given her in Whiterun. This was ridiculous. What in the world was she supposed to do with this man? Cicero was still smiling but there was a dark undertone peering out from the warm facade that hadn't been there a moment ago.

"I am going to turn in for the night. Thank you, Gregor, enjoy your evening. I'll be safe enough here, you can head home for the night," She stated, rising and leaving her partly eaten meal behind. She snagged Cicero by the arm and dragged him back toward her room, ignoring the wolf whistles and catcalls of those around them. " You and I need to talk."

"B-but Cicero wasn't finished talking to your new lap dog, Lady Dove," He purred after the door was closed firmly behind them.

"Leave Gregor alone. He is a good man and has no choice in the matter," There was a warning in her stance and glare that stated that she would stop him from doing anything to harm the housecarl and that it would most likely hurt alot if she did.

"Oh? So you would step between him and my blade, sweet Dove?" He asked, stalking toward her like a saber cat hunting prey. His body was one coiled knot of tension, ready to strike, to attack and she watched his jaw work as he drew closer. Her own gaze narrowed to slits. She was not the sort of person that took threats well.

"He is mine to protect from you, Cicero," She stated quietly and he stilled, mere inches from her, rage and madness clouding those golden eyes.

"Yours. Yours!? That man didn't travel with you, didn't have you in his bed keeping him warm like Cicero, he doesn't know what you are, sweet Dove, not like I do. How dare he think he can just come and take Cicero's Do-" Her lips cut his off from the rambling tirade brought on by the feelings of loneliness that spurred his madness. He stilled again, eyes wide as he stared at the closed lids of the white haired woman that cupped the sides of his face with her calloused hands. He let out a soft groan and sank into the kiss, elation chasing off the fear he'd felt of the small woman running off with the big man who was, admittedly, safer than Cicero. There was a moment of perfect clarity, as her soft lips slid against his that he thought to leave her in Dawnstar. Let her stay where she was safe and in the light, not dragged into the shadows with him. And then his own needy greed caught up to him and he attacked his mouth with a fervor that pulled a startled moan from the white haired woman. She forced the kiss to end quickly before things went too far, much to the disappointment of the redhead and the wolf in her.

" I am not leaving you, you silly man, nor is Gregor replacing you. If I can, I plan to order him to stay here and protect the town, " She stated in a breathless murmur as she tried to gain control over her urges. He watched her with that hungry look that still managed to both terrify and thrill her.

"Cicero is sorry...I...I was afraid. When I feel things, think of being alone with the silence again, I panic and the madness creeps up and takes hold again," He lamented. The woman flicked him in the forehead, earning a pout from him.

"Forgiven. Cheer up. Sad Cicero is creepier than happy Cicero," She stated and he chuckled gratefully.

"Cicero is going to sleep now, we can leave early in the morning before the big man knows," He stated happily before striding toward her bed. She frowned and put her hands on her hips. He pouted back at her and she raised a single brow. With a forlorn sigh he sulked to the door, dodging a swat from the white haired woman who shook her head in amusement. His mood swings were unreal.

The morning came and with it a crowd of townsfolk, including Gregor gathering around the carriage that the big man had helped Cicero carefully load into the cart. The jester was starting to warm up to the man from his care with the heavy coffin. With their wagon filled with supplies, fur blankets and more, Cicero happily climbed into the seat, waiting for Dove to finish her goodbyes.

"I am ready to follow you, Thane, if that is your wish," Gregor began, his eyes looking more than a little eager to be on the road. Clearly the content life here in sleepy Dawnstar was becoming dull for the blooded warrior. And yet, part of her felt reluctant to take him. Dawnstar would be defenseless without strong warriors, especially with dragons in the world again. She was absolutely awful about saying no to people. But the last thing that she needed was for yet another person to become a fixture in her life that would further tie her down.

"Gregor, it is my wish that in my absence, however long it may be, that you protect and watch over Dawnstar," She began, ignoring how that man's face fell slightly. The white haired woman sighed and ran a hand through her bangs feeling a bit like she was refusing a marriage proposal. "By Mara's tits, you are just as bad as Cicero."

"My place is at your side, you can't expect me to be pleased with not being able to follow my duty to you, Thane," Gregor responded with a reproving look. The man had known her for a little under two days and he was already becoming a pain in the ass, " However, Dawnstar without its Thane would be vulnerable to threats. I will remain here until you have need of me, Lady Dove."

The trip out of town was silent and awkward as she and Cicero rode along. Despite the gusts of loose snow, she could swear that she could still feel Gregor's unhappy stare miles out of town.

"Ten to one says he is still standing where you left him if we ever come back through here," Cicero joked with a snicker and the white haired woman grumbled and stretched out in the seat.

"Gregor the snowman," She stated, amused by the image of the big burly warrior coated in feet of snow from remaining still and diligent at the entrance of town. Cicero giggled and let out a happy sigh.

"It is for the best you know, he wouldn't like Cicero very much once he spent time around me," The red head added, clearly trying to alleviate some of the guilt that was clinging to Dove.

"What does it say about me then, if I can tolerate you?" She asked with a quirked brow. He gave her a slow wicked grin, eyes growing hooded as he peered up at her from beneath the thick hood he wore. She swallowed hard, nerves skittering through her chest and quickly added, "Nevermind, I don't want to know."

They traveled for a few blissfully uneventful days save for the occasional frost troll or bandit, and Cicero seemed oddly at ease. He still cast her critical, hungry looks whenever he could, still continuously spouted out morbid comments and playfully teased her. But he was calm, relaxed even, the madness that he often displayed banked like a hearthfire after a long night. They had settled into a simple routine. Traveling most of the day, chatting and watching for trouble, they rested at night in the new tent and ate and slept together in an odd companionable sort of bliss. It was so very strange. Dove's nightly urges to hunt and run had all but vanished, instead feeling renewed and more tame than she could ever recall being. Whatever or whoever was in that coffin was keeping Hircine at bay. Dove wasn't entirely sure that she cared to find out how. It was a relief, oddly enough. She loved hunting, tracking and cornering prey, feeling the power and thrill of becoming the wolf. But oh did she love sleep.

For a relatively easy week and a half the duo made their way down into the swampy reaches of Morthal. Dove had never been in the area before, mostly sticking to the south eastern regions of Skyrim and with no small amount of curiosity, the white haired woman observed the slightly warmer surroundings with all of the wonder of a child. She was enthralled by the sounds, the way the mist skimmed along the surface of the black water and danced between twisted, ominous looking trees. It was still cold, but much of the climate had shifted to a persistent chill rather than a biting snap. The amount of life in the area had her inner wolf going more than a little crazy, every unknown sound and movement, from birds to snakes, to the unknown shadows lurking under the water's surface to either side of the trail had her craning her head to observe.

The whole place was mysterious and more than a little unwelcoming to the normal individual, but to Dove, it was a whole new world to explore, to smell and hunt. Cicero observed the young woman at his side far more than the environment. She seemed like she was just barely restrained from running off into the boggy landscape to explore and he found himself chuckling at her unusual reaction to the area. From what he understood, most people hated the swampy area, at least, people not from the area. It was wet, full of dangers, and terrible rumors. The locals were about the same. The lights of Morthal and resonating clammer of angry voices were the welcoming party that welcomed the duo as the wagon clattered into the open gates. Dove was, while curious, instantly annoyed by the loud shouts and grumbling. It seemed like everywhere she went involved the townsfolk bitching or moaning about something. Determined to not get involved, she was pretty content to huddle down into the cart next to Cicero, ignoring the curious and mistrustful stares of those that watched them pass. Part of her wanted to tell Cicero to keep going and leave the depressingly unwelcoming town behind, but the lure of the Inn and the first hot bath in a week was absolutely irresistible for the former Companion.

Morthal's inn was surprisingly cheery, despite the gloom outside and it's workers were more than happy to welcome them and their large box of corpse inside, much to Dove's surprise. Apparently they were hard up for business with all of the weird shit that had been going on in the area and the restlessness of the civil war growing ever more widespread. The rooms were spacious and dry and clean, something that had the werewolf all but dancing in her joy. They were given a large room, one that she insisted had a lock. With the way the townfolk were acting, she wasn't about to take any chances and would suffer sharing a room with the jester. Two decent sized beds sat neatly against either wall, leaving plenty of room for the coffin to rest in the middle.

Dove shucked off her boots and armor, watching curiously as the Jester began laying out various pouches from his back along with a long pry bar. His movements were practiced and methodical, as thought this had become some sort of ritual. The reverence in which he opened each satchel, carefully positioning each thing in a specific order and angle hinted that she wasn't far from the truth. His fingers moved to grip the leather that covered them, intending to remove the gloves and a mixture of eager curiosity and scandalous voyeurism overtook the woman. She'd still not once seen his bare hands and her focus on the Jester had him glancing up to her with an unreadable expression. Cicero himself had been fairly shell shocked to realize that he'd begun setting about his work with her in the room. When had he become so used to her presence that he felt relaxed enough to let her witness the most sacred and important rites that he was charged with?

His amber gaze played across the plans of her open, honest face, the acceptance for his unusual habits there in her curious expression. Her blue green stare was on his hands and he found himself amused by her growing fixation on the mystery. The truth would disgust her, he was certain. But then, maybe not. Dove had been anything but predictable in the time he had known her. He very much doubted that she would do what he expected anytime in the near future. Phantom pains from his past filtered up through the layers of blissful madness and his eyes began to cloud over, face becoming contorted by an agony that no amount of time would ever fully dispel. And then soft, warm hands were cupping the sides of his face, shocking him from the memories that were starting to overtake him.

"Cicero," She murmured and he flinched almost violently, watching her with the defensiveness of a wild animal in a cage. Long, elegant, yet calloused fingers smoothed strands of copper red from his face in a manner that had him letting out a large breathy shudder, letting the momentary panic sweep out of him as he forced himself to relax under her touch. This was Dove, his beautiful, kind, wonderful Dove. She wouldn't hurt him, wouldn't revile and hate him, wouldn't leave him all alone with the awful silence that never ended. She would not harm mother like so many others had tried to. Granted, she didn't know who mother was, didn't know who HE was really. And then she said, " I am going to bathe and go for a little walk. When you are finished, open the door to let me know, alright?"

He stared at her with wonder and a grateful smile crossed his distraught face. Without even being told, she seemed to sense that this was something important to him, that he wasn't ready to open up that much to her. He nodded and watched her go with a small bag of her personal effects and he stared after her long after the door had clicked shut.

"I have found something very special, I think, Mother," He breathed before setting back into his task of preserving his mother's corpse.

Dove had taken a long, hot soak in the bathing room, scrubbing away any traces of dirt and cold from her limbs. That was definitely what she missed most about living back in the mead hall. Daily bathes. Despite being fine with tromping through muck and blood and working up a sweat, Claret was a very clean person, hated the feel of dried skin caked with Divines knew what. Once clean again, she slipped into a simple dress and sandals, daggers at her hips just in case and decided to go for a little walk to give Cicero time to finish up what he was doing. Her thoughts lingered on the strange man that had become her friend. He was brash and loud and often crazy, having moments in which he terrified her for one reason or another. Her instincts, the wolf side of her, saw him as pack, something that was a little startling considering their short history together and she could no longer deny that there was something physical between them. His vulnerable state when caught in the act of removing his gloves had left a bad taste in her mouth. She hated that he seemed broken at times, that in some moments he succumbed to this unstoppable internal war.

And of course, in all of their constant time with each other, he'd yet to show her why. He'd told her little to nothing about his past and even less about himself personally. She knew his behavior, knew he liked carrots and sweet rolls and had a terrible sense of humor. He was showing signs of some trauma from his past that caused him to be mistrustful and sometimes violent and he liked to push aside anything that so much as hinted at opening himself up to her with zany silliness and flirtations. It was irritating. But, she didn't push him, couldn't, because she was being just as dishonest with him. She hide her name, he past with the Companions and before from him, and stayed reserved, despite their growing closeness. It was absolutely stupid.

Dove strolled along the dock like platforms that made up most of the town's walkways, she pace slow and contemplative as she pondered on the enigma of Cicero. She considered telling him her real name, opening up at least a little to him as a bit of an olive branch to start building a semblance of trust with him. That thought had her stilling, fingers curled around a tall reed plant as she stared blankly ahead. Was she seriously considering this? Becoming close to the redhaired man? It was foolish and every ounce of logic in her screamed that it was so, that she was already too close to him as it was. Cicero was dangerous and she knew even without witnessing it first hand that he was a killer and not one with a moral compass like her. She'd seen the way he observed the world around him, the people. His eyes lingered on weaknesses, on escape routes, devoid of any real feeling or remorse. He was more of a predator than she was and she was a damned werewolf!

In fact, she had a feeling that the coffin he bore with him was pretty much the only thing leashing him to behave. She knotted the reed into tight twists between her fingers, striding to the end of the dock and pausing on the landing of what remained of a burnt up house, thoughts a million miles away. The fog creeped about her ankles, her long wet hair turned quicksilver in the light of the moons overhead. She shivered as the temperature dropped significantly and she stilled, hair on her arms rising on end. A small form manifested deeper inside of the house, spectral and childlike, earning a gas from the startled werewolf. A ghost? She'd seen a few in the past, mostly in crypts, and each time she was unnerved by them.

"Hello!" The child ghost greeted and feeling stupid, Dove tilted her head and without knowing what else to do, waved.

"Hi?" Well this was absurd, " A little late for someone your age to be out, don't you think?"

"Haha, you are funny, what's your name? My name is Helgi," The little girl asked, her shimmering blue form radiating an unnatural light. Dove smiled softly, always being a bit of a sucker for children.

"Dove, but since you seem like a special girl, I'll let you call me Claret," The werewolf answered, earning a wide grin from the spirit, " What happened here, Helgi?"

The girl's face dropped the expression quickly, looking suddenly sad.

"I used to live here with my mama and papa," She stilled suddenly, not even bothering with the illusion of breathing as she had before, her large white eyes looking about fearfully, "T-tell you what, I'll tell you everything, but only if you can find me. But you have to hurry, SHE is playing too."

"Wait, who is she? Helgi!" The child vanished, leaving Dove alone in the destroyed skeleton of the house. Part of her had a feeling that she had just stepped into something awful again. Nothing new there.


	4. The Sharp Touch

Four:: 

With a sigh she hiked up her skirt and stepped out into the tall grasses behind the house, following the torch fires that lit the way up the hill. She followed the scent of freshly turned earth and death. Where else do you find a ghost playing hide and seek? In a cemetery, of course. The grave stones were quiet and the area seemed entirely too still to her. No crickets, no wind, nothing. She shivered. It generally took a lot to give her the willies, but in that moment she felt like something sinister was nearby, something that was hunting her. That thought made her angry. She was the hunter, not the other way around. With a snarl she unsheathed her daggers, sidestepping a movement that she could barely track. Glowing red eyes and glinting fangs were inches from her face.

Dove's heart dropped into her stomach like a lead weight. Divines and Daedra, what was that!? A clawed hand swiped out at her and the white haired woman twisted away, feeling clumsy in the soft earth. Vampire. Her mind screamed at her to run, to flee, to keep away from the pale, crazed monster from every nightmare she'd ever been told of. The woman used to be beautiful, her face warped by hunger and rage and madness. When the ravenous vampire struck out again, she caught the werewolf high up on her thigh, the burning pain pulling an enraged snarl from Dove that was downright inhuman. Rage tumbled through the small female on the trail of the painful wound and her instincts kicked into over drive. The need to kill whatever had harmed her pushed aside her fear and she moved, swinging her blades in a fast, low arch that caught the vampire across the middle.

The bloodsucker shrieked and darted around Dove in blinking movements that were beyond anything the werewolf had ever seen. The vampire was just so fast! Dove abandoned any sense of guarding herself, knowing that something this quick would just dance right around it anyway and instead went on the offensive. She was not about to get her ass murdered in a fucking swamp by a vampire of all things. Another slash across her back had the werewolf downright pissed and with a startling amount of force, she jerked her blade about, the ebony dagger lodging itself deep into the chest cavity of the vampire. Dove sank into the wet mud beneath her as she fought for traction.

Shrieks and hisses filled Dove's ears and she struggled against the woman's considerable strength, ignoring the claws that dug into her arms in favor of holding back the gnashing teeth that tried to get at her. Suddenly the vampire let out a gasp like gurgle and her head rolled free of her twitching body. Stunned, Dove blinked owlishly at Cicero. He stood behind the creature's corpse, twin blades finishing their smooth movement. His eyes were filled with a murderous rage that mirrored her own and she let out a deep sigh of relief. She jerked hard on her weapon, letting out a pained curse as she yanked the still buried clawed hands from her arms. She was covered in wounds and blood, sweat trickling down her forehead as she glared down at the dead thing with no small amount of hunger. She wasn't finished hurting the vampire. Blood lust sang through her veins in an intoxicating song comprised of the harmonies of physical pain and the scent of blood.

"Dove, sweet Dove, look what she did to you," Cicero moaned in despair and her inhuman eyes that had grown slitted and glowing in the midst of her rage fixed on him. She panted heavily, trying to get a grip on herself. She couldn't let the wolf out here, not with the shouts of guards in the air and Cicero here. In her current state, she feared for his safety. The sound of his breaths and racing pulse were wreaking havoc on her senses and sheathed her weapon shakily. Cicero, however, was caught between worry over the state of her and downright aroused. She stood there covered in dirt in her torn dress like some sort of savage, her knuckles white around the hilts of her weapons as her chest heaved from either anger or exertion or maybe both. Those enchanting eyes nearly undid him with their feral intensity. He had a feeling that his aid hadn't been needed.

"I will be fine, " She murmured out on a growl, turning her stare to the ghost that had formed near an open grave. The child looked mournful.

"That is Laylette. When the fire happened, Laylette came and kissed me on the neck and then the fire didn't hurt anymore. She wanted to keep me forever, but she can't. I'm all burnt up. I am tired now. Goodnight," Helgi explained softly before fading away. Cicero jerked his attention from the ghost to Dove and back to the dead vampire, more that a little bewildered. He'd gone out looking for Dove after finishing with mother only to hear the distinctive sounds of battle and rushed to help. What he had seen sent ice through his veins. Dove, injured, with a vampire struggling in her hold. He had reacted before he could think and sliced the creature's head off, lost to the need to protect the white haired woman.

A new fear shot through the jester and he turned to his companion.

"Dove, the vampire, she hurt you! We need a potion or-" He began only to be cut off by the white haired woman motioning violently.

"I am immune, it's fine," She snapped, still riding the anger. His eyes went wide and he snapped his mouth shut firmly as the guards reached them along with a few townsfolk. Dove explained that she'd been out for a walk and that the woman had attacked her over the cries of one of the men that had apparently known to woman. He was her husband, she guessed. The guards, of course had freaked out over the vampire thing, taking the head as evidence to the Jarl. Still angry and seething, Dove stomped back toward the inn with Cicero in tow and Laylette's sobbing husband's cries echoing behind them. She headed back to take yet another bath, the jester stepping into the bathing rooms with her and locking the door behind him.

"Cicero go away," She growled out, tugging violently on the ties to her ruined dress. The jester ignored her and batted her hands aside, much to her ire. She was shaking from the amount of effort it was taking to stay in control. She was terrified from her encounter, angry, and the pain fueled the side of her that pushed to free itself. It had been several long days since she had transformed herself and she was paying for it. The wolf was closer to the surface and despite her close proximity to the coffin, it was winning the fight.

"Calm down, Dove," He cooed, leather covered hands moving to cup her throat much the same way that he had back in Dawnstar. She growled low in her throat, eyes still that inhuman, predatory shape that had the fool more than a little excited. "Let me take care of you, Sweet Dove."

"You...You don't have to do that Cicero," She protested softly, letting the rage and adrenaline slip away slowly with each caress of his thumb against her jaw. "Don't let my blood...I.." His free hand had moved to pull free one of her daggers and her breath hitched at the heated look in his eyes.

"Your blood?" Cicero prompted, sliding the flat of her blade against her cheek, ghosting it down her throat to the small hollow between her modest breasts. The soft, yet distinctive sound of tearing fabric had her letting out a soft sound of protest and yet she found that she could do nothing but stand there under his hooded stare.

"I am a werewolf," She blurted and he stilled momentarily. The pale skinned man tilted his head thoughtfully as he teased the sensitive skin over her chest with the point of the dagger. He put just enough pressure there to let her feel the danger, the potential he had to cut her, but not enough to actually cut. The wolf brushed against the inside of her skin, the soft, thick fur begging to press outward into the world. Her senses were becoming sharper by the second, another warning sign.

"Well that certainly explains a few things," He chuckled. The knife slid lower, the ebony slicing through the fabric easily until the bloodied tatters fell to pool at her feet. His eyes surveyed her bared skin, marred with claw marks and bruises, scars that had been too deep or from before she held the wolf blood. She had opted to not wear undergarments since she'd planned on sleeping after her walk and now she wasn't sure if she regretted it. He drew in a shaky breath at the sight of her, angry that someone other than him had managed to damage her. His gloved fingers explored each marking and earned a hiss of pain from her that shot through the relative silence of the stone room. He walked her back toward a low stool near the bath, guiding her to sit. And she did, delirious by the treatment and the events of the evening stripping her of her humanity. Why was she submitting to him? Why wasn't he terrified of her for that matter?

He began filling the basin with fresh water from the hand crank, the stoked fire beneath the bubbling vat that held it crackling merrily. The jester returned his gaze to her once again with a look that had the wolf whining and the sound echoed up through her own throat. She itched to touch him, to nose the underside of his jaw and submit properly, much to her own mortification. He wasn't a wolf and here she was, acting like a pup in her first heat. The odd, unavoidable truth was that he was playing off of her adrenaline, her shaky control and fear, turning it into something sensual and pushing buttons that she did not even know she had.

"Naughty Dove, letting yourself be harmed and worrying poor Cicero," He chided and she flushed darkly at the way he looked down at her. She covered her nudity as best she could, suddenly self conscious beneath his stare. He laughed at her antics, " Cicero thinks that his little dove should be...punished for letting someone else touch her, cut her, hurt her. What does the puppy think, hmmm?"

She swallowed hard, watching the knife warily as it slid through his fingers in a lazy twirl. She averted her gaze to the floor, unable to stop red from rushing across her cheekbones and the tips of her pointed ears. What was he asking of her? Punishment? Sure she'd lain with a man in the past, a couple women too, but none of them had ever teased or brought this sort of thing to the table. It was unnerving, keeping her off balance and out of her comfort zone. The flat of the cold weapon appeared under her chin, lifting her face to look up at his. An unhappy frown marred his lips and he held an expectant look in his eyes that had darkened considerably.

"Speak, Dove," The jab at her canine nature did not go unnoticed and she growled softly, unamused, only to feel a sharp flick to the tip of her nose that shocked her enough to silence the sound. Did he seriously just have the nerve to flick her across the nose like a misbehaving pup?! She was going to strangle him! And then his lips were on her's, bruising, consuming, teeth biting at her lower lip and dragging a needy moan from her. He grinned against her lips, free hand skimming ever so lightly down her arm and making a ripple of gooseflesh rise in it's wake. Her hands shot out to wind about his neck, to pull him closer, only to be brought up short by the bite of ebony blade into her throat.

"Ah ah ahhh, answer Cicero, Dove," He repeated, watching as she slowly removed her arms with a wariness, knowing that despite his affection for her that he would have little to no problem with hurting her. She was pretty damn sure that he would get off on it, honestly. The werewolf watched him fish a small clear vial from a pouch in his belt and the jester downed the sharp, pungent, bitter tasting potion in a quick swallow with a grimace. Potion of cure disease, she figured, or something very similar. She wasn't much of an alchemist but she knew the basics and every Companion was required to learn that particular potion mixture more for the sake of dosing anyone that happened to get a little too close to their blood. Lycanthropy was much harder to catch than Vampirism, but she was relieved that he was taking precaution. Her own strain of Lycanthropy was special, like all of the Companions. They were not directly born from Hircine, like most, but cursed into the wolf form by some of the Lord of the Hunt's worshippers. Because of that, it took a good deal of blood to turn another and even more luck.

Hircine had swam through Claret's veins like a fish to water, however. The wolf loved her, meshed far better with her than most. Aela and Skorr were both very close to the wolf side as well, but Claret had adapted and felt far more at home as the wolf than even them. And that wolf was all but eating out of the palm of Cicero's hand.

"Punishment?" She asked with trepidation and more than a little excitement. A slow, sinfully wicked smirk curled the man's generous lips and heat shot through Dove's limbs to gather low in her belly.

"Yes, of course. We can't have you thinking that you can let just anyone leave marks on your beautiful body, now can we?" He replied as he returned to rolling the tip of the blade along the plains of her skin. She flushed darker and swallowed hard, painfully aware of her own nudity and the fact that he was so very close. The scent of his arousal was thick in the room and it only made her more crazed. She shook her head in agreement instinctively and he rewarded her with a light kiss on the cheek. The blade had found one of the long, jagged claw marks that Laylette had left on her shoulder. The skin had already begun to reform thanks to her healing abilities and with a careful, shallow movement, Cicero sliced it open again. Dove snarled loudly, baring pointed teeth as the hackles of her wolf rose on end under the feel of the pain he'd given her. His free hand was already moving however, a wet cloth she hadn't even seen him pick up clearing the reopened cut of dirt and dried blood.

Fresh blood welled up along the clean cut and she watched him distrustfully as he knelt before her on the stone floor and leaned in close to the wound. His hot, wet tongue flicked across the cut and she let out a startled moan against the sensation. What in the hell was he doing!? His warm breath fanned over her skin between each slow and purposeful lick and she swallowed a second moan when he let the hand not holding the dagger cup one of her breasts in a gentle juxtaposition of the pain he inflicted on her. Cicero repeated the process with each claw mark, taking his time to lavish attention on all five until Dove was visibly shaking in his grip. He then moved on with his exploration, finding the deeper slices from where the vampire had latched onto her forearms with both hands.

He cleaned the area, then brought the knife down in a slow, controlled manner, claiming each marking for himself. And Dove began to anticipate each painful stroke, tensing and shuddering, hissing out under the painful sensation that had very quickly become the only thing that she could focus on. His eager mouth acted as a balm when he sucked and traced the wounds with his tongue. And as much as her head tried to tell her that this was wrong, that this was a terrible idea and that she should kill the man and run far away, the much louder part of her was begging for more. She was hyper aware of everywhere he touched her and leaned into his every touch. The other arm received the same treatment and then he was moving behind her, constantly trailing the flat of his blade along as he explored her, looking for more damage.

"Such a good girl," He cooed in her ear, freehand capturing the mess of her hair and laying it over her uninjured shoulder so that he could get at the cuts that ran horizontally across the small of her back. Cicero knelt again and she shivered in anticipation. This was beyond sensual, something that she never would have imagined herself being into at all. In the past she had gotten aggressive and walked out on anyone that tried to control her, but here the jester was manipulating her like clay effortlessly. She whimpered at the nip of the blade again and all but leapt out of the stool when he laved his tongue over the sensitive area. And then the lithe man was slinking back around in front of her, his large golden eyes fixated upon the deepest of her wounds which rested on her left hip. The cut gaped open unhappily and ran from just above the top of her hip bone at a dramatic angle to taper off somewhere near her inner thigh.

"C-Cicero," She breathed out in warning. He wouldn't. Dove swallowed thickly, her throat constricting as he looked up at her flushed face with all of the heat of the sun. The young woman trembled beneath his stare that fell to the Sithis amulet that rested in the hollow of her throat. He gave her a serene smile as he turned to rinse out his cloth with hot water, pink clouds rolling free from the once white rag. And then he turned back to her and with barely any pressure, parted her shaking knees so that he could ease between squeezed the hot water over the wound, watching the grime and blood slide away over her twitching muscles. Again and again he rinsed the wound until it looked clear of anything foreign. And then he was pressing the dagger to it, following the cut exactly, but not deepening it any. She realized then what he was doing in a moment of disturbing clarity. He was straightening the cuts.

Was he that OCD about it that he had to ensure that all of her scars; if they became scars, were perfectly straight. Fresh blood followed the wake of the weapon and he tossed aside the jagged pieces of clotted blood and skin that would have healed crookedly before setting the blade aside. He wiped away most of the excess blood, at least intelligent enough to know better than to take too much of it into his system, even with the use of a cure disease potion. He was taking such a big risk. Oh Divines say that he wouldn't. He lowered his lips to her hip, skimming his mouth and tongue along the abused flesh and she found it impossible to breathe. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears and she could not stop the keening whimper that ripped its way out of her throat. Lower and lower he followed the cut, his strong grip holding her firmly in place. When he reached her inner thigh, he all but purred against her skin and slowed his descent to tease her further. Needy fingers buried themselves in his hair, needing a hand hold, something to root her to the ground.

"Cicero...please," She gasped out as he latched onto the flesh right above her cut, so close to that place that throbbed for attention, but so very far. And then ever so slightly, he pressed a kiss to her entrance, breathing in the scent of how he had affected her.

"That's it, my Dove, beg me to give you more," He murmured, voice deepening into that darker, baser tone that had her toes curling against the stones. "Tell me what you want Cicero to do."

The hands in his hair tightened and she let out an animalistic snarl that spoke of her frustration. She'd apparently reached her limit and Cicero found himself being yanked upward hard so that she could ravage his lips with a hunger that spiraled away from her. He groaned throatily and matched her furious pace. To Sithis with it, he thought and lifted her from the stool with far more strength than she would have given him credit for. She wrapped herself around him and groaned at the feeling of his hands on her rear, the press of his length against her. He backed her into the wall hard enough to earn a growl from her. And then there was a loud pounding on the outer door and the two of them froze, breathing halted and eyes locked. There was a terrible rage within Cicero's eyes, something that should have scared the white haired woman, but instead only had her skin crawling with need.

"What?" She called out, surprised by how steady her own voice was.

"The Jarl wishes to speak with you," Was the hesitant, male voice that answered her. She was just as if not more angry than Cicero in that moment, but she banked it in favor of running her fingers through his long hair in long, slow strokes, sliding her hips against his in a teasing manner that had the redhead calming considerably. Or at least, refocusing his attention somewhere more productive and likely to involve less murder.

"Can't I meet with them in the morning?" She asked, letting her head fall back as the jester lowered his talented mouth to her chest.

"'fraid not, Miss, Jarl Ravencrone was very insistent," The guard replied. She let out a heated huff, biting her lower lip hard when Cicero sank a single leather clad finger up inside of her.

"D-did she say what she wanted?" Dove continued the conversation, watching the smirk that grew on Cicero's face when she writhed against him. Fuck.

"No, only that your assistance is needed immediately in an important matter involving your encounter this evening," The stranger reported professionally. Cicero had begun stroking her inner walls in a circular motion and she was tempted to say damn the guards and the Jarl and to just have her way with the rotten fool. With a sigh she lowered her legs to the floor and mournfully let the redhead remove his hand from her.

"Give me time to finish binding my wounds and I'll be out," She called. Claret was really starting to hate Jarls.


	5. A Change in You

A Change in You

 

The Jarl's hall was dim even with the hot embers crackling merrily within the large stone fire pit that took up the bulk of the main entrance. Thick clouds of shifting smoke that smelt of herbs and spice clouded her sensitive nose from everything else and caused her eyes to itch. Claret was unamused. Cicero was little better off as he stood there pouting like a child whose favorite toy had been taken. The white haired warrior stood in the gloom with a loose fitting dress that hung off of the shoulder to prevent any more agitation to her wounds that the Jester had carefully wrapped in poultice lined bandages. Claret had never been very good at binding her own wounds. Could she patch up someone else? Sure, but with none of Cicero's finesse and experience. The former companion was far more likely to ignore her wounds entirely then treat herself. She rarely was injured enough to have trouble regenerating with her wolf blood. The woman had been more than a little lucky.

Said woman was glaring with everything she had at the elk antler lined throne that held the Jarl of Morthal. Jarl Ravencrone was staring right back at her, unaffected by the acid in the dragonborn's eyes.

"What is it that couldn't wait until the morning, Jarl Ravencrone?" Dove began, ignoring the Jarl's muscled guards that had crowded in closer to her imposingly to dissuade any violence. As if they could stop her if the mood struck the werewolf. Hah. She was getting dangerously close to that mood.

"You are shorter than I expected, Dragonborn," The weathered old woman stated bluntly and the blood in Dove's veins froze. How did the old bitch know that?! Wide eyed and jaw working to grasp at some form of language to convey her surprise, the white haired werewolf felt her fingers curl out of habit around the large blade across her shoulders. The distinctive sound of steel rang in the air and she was deaf to it all as she stared up at the smiling woman on her pedestal. "Now that will not be needed. Put those away. You would only make her more angry. You don't poke a dragon to get it to listen, after all."

People had moved when Claret had gone for her weapon. Alot. The two big guards were two steps away, weapons held aloft. The Jarl's husband had also moved closer, bow in hand with his features tense. Cicero had also not been idle. The jester had vanished from her side entirely. Claret's startled gaze jerked back to the Jarl to spot the red haired rogue leaning against the side of the throne, dagger held casually against the woman's throat. He smiled serenely down at the Jarl with a little, playful tilt of his head. There was no trace of humanity in those golden eyes of his. He could have killed her and felt nothing but accomplishment. The dark haired woman had the sense to look at least a little unnerved. But she remained composed and Dove grudgingly felt a shred of respect bloom in her chest. She hadn't known how fast the jester could be, hadn't guessed that he could practically flicker across a room like a shadow and he had done so silently. It was impressive as hell.

"Cicero…" She breathed out softly, and she released her tension like opening a fist. The werewolf focused on breathing, on letting go of the fear and anger that had shot through her muscles and demanded blood and violence. She never reacted well to fear. It made her angry. What better way to get rid of your fear than to stab it to death? The red haired man all but danced back to Dove, blade disappearing from his hand. He smiled at her, gloved hand moving to cup her cheek when he was close enough.

"Sweet Dove, tell Cicero what you want him to do," He stated beneath the heat that had flooded his stare. He would kill them all for her. She knew it. She could see it in his face. If she told him to kill, they would all die. Just like that. And he would be happy to do it. Dove shivered at the thought as her own fear crawled up her throat. She had forgotten how utterly terrifying he could be. But behind that fear was something that was even more frightening. This was his version of giving her a bouquet of flowers. And she was absolutely flattered by it, more so than if he had given her flowers. What did it say about her if she enjoyed the thought of him killing for her? Nothing good, she was certain. Her world narrowed to him, the feel of his cool, smooth glove caressing her jaw, the clean scent of his skin and hair that was tinged with nightshade and old blood and that unmistakable cologne that could only be described as male. She breathed in his scent and sighed deeply, letting her fingers uncurl from her weapon and fall to her side. He smiled at her. If he were disappointed by the lack of murder, he didn't show it. Cicero moved back to her side and observed the room as the guards put away their weapons with all of the hunger of a saber cat.

"How did you know?" Dove asked unhappily. The Jarl smiled.

"I saw it. My gift is to see what others can not. You may not have the physical wings of a dragon, my dear, but I can see them plain as day around you," The old woman replied as she traced the air in front of her as though tracing wings sprouting from the small woman's frame. Unnerved, Dove stepped forward. " I knew you would come. It has been the only real certainty since all of this war business started."

"What do you want from me?" The dragonborn asked, face devoid of emotion as she tried to wrap her brain around the thought of the old woman being able to see the future.

"The vampire. Where there is one, there are likely more. My people are in danger and I fear it lives among them. I can't discern where they are or who is connected to them. The minions of the Daedric lord are beyond my sight," The Jarl began.

"Daedric lord? What does a daedra have to do with this?" Dova asked. Thoughts of Vaermina had the faint stench of death lined roses creeping into her senses and she shuddered involuntarily. She swallowed hard.

"Yes, Molag Baal. He is the source of vampires and they hold his stain on their souls. It makes it very difficult to see them, especially when surrounded by normal humans," The older woman explained and Dove's dread grew, " You are an outsider who can look at the villagers with a stranger's eyes, unburdened with the emotional connection one of us would have. You are strong, a survivor, and someone that killed a vampire with little trouble. I ask that you investigate, track down the source of the burned home and the vampire and I will reward you with all that I can."

Dove wanted to say no. She wanted to turn around and walk right out of the door into the night and keep going. This woman knew too much about her, knew what she was and that was a problem. Claret also had no desire to go up against vampires. They were dangerous even to a werewolf and she did not want to put Cicero into the path of that sort of danger. And yet, she fixed on the memory of the dead child's ghostly face and her heart clenched.

"Fine. But I want as many cure disease potions as your alchemist can make before midday. The man who was crying over the body tonight, who is he and where can I find him?" Claret asked. The Jarl looked relieved, sagging in her chair a bit as if Dove's acceptance of the job had taken all of the world's weight from those frail shoulders.

"That was her husband, Thronnir. He lives near the mill at the edge of town. Thank you Dragonborn, truly," The Jarl answered sincerely.

"Do not call me that!" Dove spat, teeth bared and the Thu'um peppering her voice with power from her anger. The name brought terror skittering through her limbs and she hated it. Hated the way that each time someone else said it, declared her the Dovahkiin, that she sank further and further into the inescapable pit that was her destiny. She breathed, the feel of Cicero's gloved hands on her shoulders pulling her back from the rage. "My name is Dove."

Without another word, the white haired woman whirled about and left, Cicero following close behind her. Her stomping steps took her back toward the Inn. There was no point in trying to talk to Thronnir now, it was already late into the night and she was aching and tired. The jester's arms were suddenly around her waist, pulling her to a firm halt. He pressed her back against his chest, nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck with a soft sigh.

"We can leave, we can move on to the next town. Sweet Dove owes these people nothing and Cicero doesn't like seeing his Dove so upset," He cooed to her. It was a nice thought. Just, pack up the wagon, toss the coffin in the back and get the Oblivion away from it all. She breathed in his scent and settled back against his warmth. Her head fell back against his shoulder and his lips were all too happy to skim along the soft column of skin left bare to him.

"I can't. I don't go back on my word once it is given," She replied softly, stifling a moan as his teeth nipped at her shoulder and his hands began to wander. Her heart thudded in her ears and blood heated for an entirely different reason. Dove growled low in her throat, her body aching from the stress of the day and every single inch of her wanted to forget the Jarl, the vampire, and most importantly, the dragonborn. For one moment before she would be forced to face something she had always had a bit of a phobia of, she wanted to cling to the murderer behind her and just forget. Forget that tomorrow he could be eaten by vampires and it would be her fault. Her throat ran dry at the thought and heat built behind her eyes. His hand cupped her jaw, uncaring that they were easily in full view of the whole town should someone look out into the night. His teeth bit into the juncture of her shoulder and she moaned, couldn't stop the sound that ripped its way out of her throat from that pleasurable pain his mouth brought her.

He sucked at her skin, tongue lathing across the bite in a swirling motion that had her squirming against him. Cicero ground his hips against her and she clamped her teeth into her lower lip to hold back the wonton noises that wanted to fill the night air.

"Cicero," She whispered, voice ragged and needy and full of that emotion she just couldn't hold in anymore. "I-"

"Hush, Dove, be a good girl for Cicero and let him finish what he started before we were so rudely interrupted," He murmured. Dove caught the scent of something dead on the wind and she turned in his hold to wind her arms about his neck. Cicero looked down at her with an arched brow and she peered about them with her eyelids lowered, using her peripheral vision.

"Oh ho, someone being naughty out here in the night?" A sultry voice cooed to them from not too far off. Dove reacted as someone caught being inappropriate would, jerking with a gasp and pulling back from the bemused Jester. The white haired woman flushed prettily. It wasn't an act, at least, her embarrassment at being watched by a random stranger wasn't. She was not exactly huge in the PDA department. Granted, she'd never really had a reason to be concerned about it until now.

"I am ALWAYS naughty," Cicero cackled with a leer that had the stranger laughing softly in surprise. She was...well, beautiful. She glided across the dirt as though she were lighter than air, her voluptuous body curved in all of the right places. A low cut dress clung like a second skin to her pale figure, the green bringing out the color of her eyes even in the moonlight. She creeped Dove out. Too red lips smiled mysteriously and she gave a playful tilt to her head as she fixed the couple with a curious look.

"She doesn't seem very naughty," The blonde haired vision drawled and there was a heat in her eyes that made the already uncomfortable Dove's temper flare. The way that the stranger looked at the red haired man was infuriating. It took every ounce of self control in her body to not outright snarl. Cicero's smile widened as did the anger in the werewolf. Unamused, the white haired woman turned fully to face the other female and she could just feel the alpha female in her straining to be unleashed.

"SHE is standing right here," Dove stated bluntly and the woman's gaze fixed on her. The stare was assessing, hungry, and calculating. It had Dove's feelers on alert. Was this wench looking for an easy lay? Looking to get lucky and make off with some good coin? Cicero seemed distracted by her presence, as if there were something magnetic about her. Jealousy flared low in her belly and she bit down hard on it. She was supposed to save the villagers, not rip off one of their heads and punt it into the marsh like a kickball. She warily watched the taller woman that drew even closer until she was too far into Claret's personal space. Elegant fingers moved to comb through the werewolf's snow white locks with all of the tenderness of a lover and Claret felt bile rise up her throat. It was there, she could feel it. The bitch was trying to use some sort of spell or illusion or something on her. After her run in with the Daedric Prince of Nightmares, nothing could fool Dove's mind in such a manner.

The stranger's expression became puzzled by the continued look of mistrust in Dove's eyes, and then alarmed by the knowing displeasure that was taking root on the white haired female's features.

"My, my, aren't you an interesting one?" The blonde purred out, looking more than a little intrigued. Unease tickled at Dove's insides.

"No more interesting than you are. Miss…" The werewolf replied, forcing herself into the role she had chosen. A flirtatious smirk rolled over her pert lips and she nudged the other woman's fingers much like an affectionate cat. She swallowed back the distaste in her mouth when the green eyed beauty smiled even wider and petted the shimmering white locks more surely. Dove nuzzled into to other woman's palm and inhaled deeply. It took all of her willpower not to outright bite the bitch. She smelt of blood and death, the lingering scent of ozone that hinted at otherworldly energy. Vampire.

"Please, call me Alva, pretty thing," And Claret felt like gagging. She felt Cicero press tight against her back, his arms winding about her waist in a possessive manner. And she could feel the tension singing in his body even through their clothing.

"It was nice meeting you, Alva, but my friend and I have a bed to get back to," Dove murmured lowly as she backed out of range of the stranger's touch and Cicero moved with her. A wicked smile crossed Alva's face and she laughed.

"Oh I bet you do, would you like some...help?" The other woman hedged and Dove's gaze became cold, and she let her monster rise to the surface just a bit. Her own force tingled out along her skin and a soft growl let her throat. Cicero let out a soft breath in her ear from the slide of her power over his body.

"Tempting, but I don't share well with others," And then she was moving, ignoring the almost physical touch of Alva's stare against her back. The jester moved with her despite his confusion. She didn't release a breath until they were both inside of their paid room and the door was firmly locked.

"Dove...what was that?" Cicero asked uncertainly. He looked as though he had just come out of a trance. The Vampire had used her little trick on him.

"That woman...is a Vampire she tried to bewitch us," Dove hissed out softly. Did Alva know that she was going to be hunting the vampires? No, it was clear that the woman was just looking for fresh meat, or rather blood. Just how many of them were in the village?

"So that is why you let her touch you?" Cicero asked with a disappointed sort of tone that had her raising an eyebrow.

"What? You expected me to invite her back to play or something Cicero?" Dove snapped, anger rising to the surface once again, this time at the red haired man that was smirking at the thought.

"It might have been fun," He teased and she threw a boot at him.

"Yeah, well the only playing I will EVER be doing with that woman is 'Hide the Knife' is that clear, pervert?" She grouched as she stalked over to poke him in the chest unhappily. The dark chuckle that came from him had goosebumps dancing up her forearms and he gave her a look that was equal parts lust and lunacy.

"My favorite game," He murmured before capturing her lips with his own. She let out a soft squeak that was swallowed by his hungry mouth and tongue that stole its way in to explore her's. Her fingers fisted in the thick material of his motley and her heart hammered in her throat. Oh he was far too good at that. All of her thoughts scattered to the wind under the nips of his teeth across her lips. She couldn't have stopped what happened next if she had wanted to. Like a branch bent too far, too often, her control snapped and splintered. A growl left her and in the next moment Cicero found himself sprawled on the floor with a needy woman pinning his arms over his head. Her tongue battled with his for dominance as she ground her hips into his and a deep moan fell out of his throat. She came up for air, mouth trailing down along his jaw much as she had wanted to earlier. Heat filled her center and the wolf in her was done waiting, done being interrupted.

"My sweet, Dove," Cicero groaned and she bit into the juncture of his neck and shoulder, hard. His cry of surprise turned quickly to pleasure under to feel of her soft tongue lapping at the wound and the suction of her lips. He bucked his hips against her to increase the friction between them and writhed under her iron grip. She was far stronger than her petite body showed. The werewolf pulled back to survey her handywork with a satisfied smirk. He stared up at her with glazed golden eyes, hair fanned out over the fur rug they had partly landed upon. His breathing was frantic, face flushed and a dark bruise was forming over the bite she'd given him that stood out sharply against his almost white skin.

"Mine," She growled out possessively and she felt his erection jump beneath her in response. Her world spun as the jester overpowered her and flipped their positions. Dove let out a squeak when his hands yanked free the ties on her dress and pulled it down and off in a rush. She tugged at his belt and tunic insistently and he was happy to comply, tugging the motley up over his head with a flourish that had a giggle bubbling up from her. Her eyes drank in the sight of him in the flickering firelight and her breath hitched in her throat. He was so pale, every inch of him toned and surprisingly muscled. She had known that his attire hid his body well and had seen his nude torso once before in the dark, but she hadn't expected the defined chest and abdomen that was revealed to her. A pretty flush rolled over her cheeks and chest. Dove could not pull her eyes off of him as he unlaced his breeches; watching her, watch him with an expression that was five shades of smug. All along his white torso were raised scars, small and large, painting a picture of his history before her curious gaze.

Half expecting him not to allow her, she lifted her hands to touch him and he groaned against the chilled, calloused fingertips. He rose up to remove the rest of his clothing before settling back over her in nothing but those damnable gloves and his stupid hat. It would have been ridiculous if he didn't look so edible. How he made it look sexy, she would never know. Her eyes trailed down his body and her face became redder and redder at the sight of his arousal proudly on display before her. She averted her gaze in embarrassment and he chuckled at her.

"So shy," Cicero murmured, turning her face back to him to seal his lips against her's again as he eased himself between her legs and into the cradle of her hips. She tangled her hands in his red locks with a moan against the feel of his hands covering her breasts. The texture of the cold leather of those well cared for gloves drew a gasp from her. It was such a juxtaposition of his hot mouth and body that it left her reeling and she arched into his hands uncontrollably when those deft fingers trailed up in lazy patterns over her nipples.

He broke the kiss to trickle kisses down her throat and beyond and she could only hold on. His lips brushed lightly over the bandages on her shoulder and something deep inside of her clenched tight with need as her mind flitted back to the attention he had paid her wounds earlier in the evening. Oh that cheeky bastard. She could feel his smile against her skin and as much as she wanted to smack him for it, the urge left her when he rubbed his length against her inner thigh. She tugged on his hair, trying to bring him back up for another kiss but he grasped her wrists and held them tight to the wood floor. She growled and struggled until his velvet soft tongue registered over her breasts and that growl fell into a surprised moan.

Now her experience with sex had been fairly limited to lustful, quick, and forceful meetings between packmates. It had never been like this. This was torturous and soft and yet it had her writhing. His teeth scraped over her before he bit down and sucked to leave his own mark on her. The scent of her blood filled the air with it's copper perfume.

"C-Cicero," She whimpered his name and he groaned with a full shudder against her from the sound. He slid down her body hungrily, forcing her legs open and without warning, or letting her her catch a breath, he pressed his mouth to her entrance. A strangled sound escaped her and she wiggled against the sensation, struggling to get away and closer all at the same time. What happened to distancing herself from him? Wasn't she going to keep him at arm's length to stay away from the need in those golden eyes of his? She couldn't remember why she had resisted him or why she had run from him and with each pass of his tongue the warnings in the back of her head were drifting farther away.

"I'll ask you again, my little Dove. Tell Cicero what you want him to do to you," He purred as he peered up at her along the length of her body. She shivered at the intensity in his stare. She swallowed hard and struggled to find words. He ghosted a pair of fingers barely over her sensitive womanhood and she strained against the hold his other hand had on her to arch into those teasing fingers.

"P-please," She gasped out softly, a mixture of shame and desperation painting her cheeks red again. He grinned and the blush darkened.

"Hmm? Please what?" He prodded before pressing a kiss to her inner thigh. She outright whined then. " Anything will do, Sweet Dove. 'Cicero take me,' 'Cicero, I want to feel you in me,' let me hear you."

Dove was not exactly familiar with pillow talk or whatever it was that lovers did and she most certainly did NOT beg. But under his teasing, sure hands, she struggled to find words that wouldn't scald her face further. She closed her eyes tight and murmured a fast jumble of words that he could barely hear let alone understand and he moved up her body to trap her jaw in his grasp.

"Look at me, Dove," He growled out in a dark tone that had fire licking across her nerves and shyly she let her blue green eyes clash with his honey yellow. "Louder. Tell me. What do you want Cicero to do? Or is the big bad wolf afraid?"

Her eyes narrowed to slits and her anger sparked to override her shyness and with a growl she twisted a wrist free and grabbed a handful of his copper hair to drag his mouth closer to hers.

"I want you to fuck me, Cicero," She stated and he went still over her as lust clouded his careful control.

"Good girl," He told her on a moan and sank into her tight heat. They both gasped and moved together, sweat beading up on their joined bodies. Dove fell into sensation and clung to the jester. She ignored the ache of her inner thigh wound and rolled her hips to meet his every thrust. And then he stopped and she nearly screamed, her insides clenching and needing that little bit more that had been denied far too many times. He pulled out of her long enough to put her legs over his shoulders before pressing back inside and she did cry out then, head smacking into the bear rug below as he filled her. It was too much, he was suddenly too large and yet she need more, more, more of that sensation.

"Cicero, that is!" Her words broke off as he circled that little spot at the juncture of her legs on a particularly hard set of thrusts and she fell over the end on a breathless gasp, squeezing tight around him and forcing him to follow after her with a guttural cry of release. They stayed that was for several moments, foreheads pressed together, completely joined and just breathed. Her chest clenched as her heart fluttered like a trapped bird. There was something in her that shifted ever so slightly, something that felt like it clicked into place and she was suddenly hyper aware of him in a way that was almost surreal. Gingerly, he lowered her legs and settled his weight onto his elbows on either side of her with a broad smile on his face that made his eyes shine.

"What have you done to me? " She asked in a breathless whisper. He brushed a stray lock of white hair out of her face and ran a gloved thumb over her lower lip that was swollen from his kisses.

"Only what you asked me to," Was his simple reply.


	6. Only Us Monsters Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claret discovers something about herself that she isn't sure she can handle. Cicero is only too happy to encourage it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in this chapter for violence, torture, and the first step in the road to making a homicidal serial killer. <3 Thank you all for your support, I am glad that so many of you have enjoyed the story so far! Things are going to get a bit rough from here on out, so be prepared. 8D All of your comments and kudo's make me all warm and fuzzy inside! Cookies for those of you who catch what I did here.

 

 “Miss Claret, I’ve something for you today,” Ronthil proclaimed with all of the flourish of a dramatic bard. Of course, he was a dramatic bard and often prone to silliness when Claret was near. Ronthil was tall and handsome and the picture perfect example of a prince in Claret’s eyes. He had the loveliest of eyes and a proud, Bosmer face beneath a neatly kept halo of gleaming, auburn locks. She giggled shyly up at him, made bashful by the young man’s attentions as he produced a vibrantly colored crown of various wild flowers for her inspection. She schooled her young features to sniff delicately in disinterest before turning her gaze aside in feigned boredom, playing the part of the spoiled noble.

 

 “It makes an passable offering,” She stated snobbishly and he let out a scoffing laugh. The elf ticked the halfling child in retaliation for her snub at his gift, tearing shrieks of bell like laughter from the girl that wiggled to escape the much older man. 

 

“Passable? I’ll have you know, you little imp, that I fought off a mighty bear for this crown!” He declared. She stuck her tongue out at him teasingly when she managed to dart around the campfire they sat near. In relative safety from his attacks she put her little hands on her hips and tossed her wild mane of hair over her shoulder.

 

“You expect me to be impressed by a little bear? Maybe two bears, now that would be worthy of me! I bet it was really a squirrel and not a bear at all!” She proclaimed. She outright screamed when with a mock war cry, the bard leapt the small fire and chased her about the camp. The duo laughed  and played until her little legs were too heavy and she flopped down with a yawn in his arms. The child’s father had watched their play out of the corner of his eye like a hawk, unable to keep the amusement out of his features at the sassy child’s mannerisms. She liked Ronthil quite a bit, he could tell. It was why she went out of her way to pick at him. The harmless crush of a silly girl for a young man barely out of his teens. The young man was kind to her and was a welcome distraction from the listlessness that had nearly drown his poor little dove for the past few months. The death of her mother had been painful for them both. 

 

Father and daughter had met up with a small caravan heading for Skyrim and among their number was Ronthil. There were no other children in the group and at first, she had ignored or even rudely refused Ronthil’s attempts at conversation. The bard had picked up right away that something terrible had happened to the both of them. From a large family himself, Ronthil had several younger siblings and greatly enjoyed playing with them and entertaining them with music. And Claret’s stubborn melancholy had only sent the bard to more drastic measures. He did countless silly things in attempts at getting the girl to smile. And it wasn’t until he had turned about backward on his horse as she stared at him blankly from behind her father and ended up eating the dirt from an unseen branch catching him across the head that the white haired child had dissolved into giggles.

 

After that, she found reasons to pay attention to the world a little more. It took weeks for her to laugh and play with him freely, but every day she got a little better and her father’s depression eased a little more seeing her happier. 

 

The night was calm and warm and Claret had nestled herself into the crook of Ronthil’s neck as he strummed a well used lute softly around her dozing little body, his flower crown atop her head. Her father sat closeby, sharpening his weapons while the rest of the camp began to call it a night. They were about a day or so from the gates that would lead into Skyrim and all of them were anxious for it. 

 

It happened so fast that the woman across from them hadn’t even screamed. She was just simply gone. Steel and snarls shook the sleep from the child and fear had her going quiet and wide eyed as she clung to Ronthil. The two men had jumped up, Claret’s father placing himself before the duo with his sword ready as a broken scream split the air. Shouts of “vampire” had pure, unadulterated terror freezing Claret’s insides and she reached for her father while fisting her little hands in Ronthil’s tunic. 

 

“Hide her! Now!” Her father ordered and the child stared after him with big,tear filled eyes as he stalked into the darkness to slay the big baddies that had come to hurt them all. Ronthil clambered up into the wagon, keeping low with her pressed to his chest as he shuffled aside bags of supplies and bundled her in furs. 

 

“Now, Miss Claret, you must promise to keep very still and very quiet, alright?” Ronthil murmured soothingly, still calm and sure despite everything. Her prince and her daddy would make everything all better. Surely they would. The bard held out a hand toward her and she felt the hair raising tingle of magic cover her until she blended with the wagon entirely. Ronthil had enough time to draw a blade from his side before a gray skinned, claw of a hand slammed through his stomach with a sickening sound and a spray of blood. Claret wanted to scream, to sob, to tear the monster apart for hurting her prince. Ronthil smiled at her where she sat and pressed a bloody finger to his lips to silence her, as if knowing that she wanted to cry out. She could see the color draining from his perfect features, the trembling gasps that were forced from his lungs. And then he was gone, taken into the shadows by the vampire, his face contorted in agony imprinted on the child’s eyes.

 

Claret awoke with a gasp. A fine sweat lined her shaking form, chills rolling up and down her body as she tried to remember where she was. The inn. Of course. A bad memory. A nightmare. She sat up slowly rubbing her face to chase away the sight of someone she hadn’t thought about in years. Fucking vampires. 

 

  The white haired woman glanced across the room at the sleeping redhead, thankful that she hadn’t woken him. No they hadn’t slept in the same bed. The beds were far too small for it to be practical and both of them had needed a chance to breathe. Tingles of pleasure danced along her insides as her mind flicked back to last night. Well… a few hours ago, rather, from the lack of daylight. She rolled the tension from her stiff shoulders and let her bare feet settle on the slightly too cold stone floor. Fighting the vampire last night had conjured up Ronthil’s frost blue eyes , wide in panic and smile distorted against a pain that as a child, had seemed absolutely monstrous. 

 

   Vampires had become the boogie man in the dark to her after that moment. Her father and a few haggard members of their little traveling group had been the only people to come back that night. He’d found her curled in on herself, hugging Ronthil’s crown to her chest. She remembered being so very upset that the petals had gotten rumpled from the mistreatment. Such a stupid thing to fixate on, but she had, after all, been a child. Claret swallowed back the old pain that memories of her father and Ronthil had stirred up and worry chewed on her gut like a feral skeever. She did not want Cicero going anywhere near the vampires. Her chest ached at the thought of something happening to him and her eyes grew hot.

 

“Dove?” The jester whispered and her gaze returned to him. He had propped himself up on one arm, the thick furs pooling about his bare waist as he watched her with curious, concerned amber. She crossed the room before she could stop herself. Her flesh pebbled against the sharp cold air and her heart skipped unhappily with fear. Cicero blinked up at her in surprise when she climbed into his bed and quickly shuffled the furs around her as she settled herself on top of him, head nudging the underside of his chin as she tried to find a comfortable position. He let out a happy sound and wound his arms around her small frame despite his confusion. The jester hadn’t missed the emotion on her features. 

 

“Tell Cicero what is troubling his Dove?” He murmured in the dark and she clung to him, fingers curling in his hair and legs twining with his as though she could keep him there with her forever so long as she held on. She breathed him in to calm herself and nuzzled into his skin with a sigh. He was so warm and alive; the sound of his thudding heartbeat made her eyes feel heavy again. 

 

“I am afraid,” She answered finally and his arms tightened around her. Claret swallowed thickly and pressed her lips to the smooth skin of his clavicle. “I am afraid of the vampires taking you away from me.”

 

A deep chuckle resonated from his chest and she blinked up at him in confusion. It wasn’t anything to laugh at. 

 

“Sweet Dove, if the Dread Father wants Cicero to join him in the Void, than Cicero must. However, Cicero is not concerned. There is much that he must do here first before that. And it would be very rude of Cicero to leave his beautiful Dove just when he’s finally caught her,” He replied while lifting her chin to force her to meet his stare. A smile that was all warmth and comfort curled his lips and her heart twisted with something she couldn’t name. He drew her down into a kiss that had her toes curling. Her mind went blissfully blank save for that persuasive mouth of his and she lost herself in the kiss. And even as he pushed up into her, Claret still could not shake that small shred of terror that clung for all it’s worth to her heart. 

 

When the sun had barely touched the sky, the two of them bathed and dressed. There was a wonderful ache to Claret’s thighs and insides that burned deliciously with every movement and it took all of her willpower to not drag the red head back to bed. They ate a quick breakfast of honied oatmeal and headed out to begin their hunt. She could feel Cicero’s hungry eyes on her as she led the way to the widower’s home and she couldn’t fight the smirk that touched her lips. He was impossible. Schooling her features to neutral, she knocked, listening to the creaking of floorboards as the big nord stumbled to open the door. 

 

“H-hello, what can I do for you?” Thronnir asked. In the morning light he looked awful. His eyes were bloodshot from too much crying and not enough sleep and he stank of ale. Claret couldn’t blame him. 

 

“Thronnir? My name is Dove and this is Cicero, we wanted to ask you some questions if you wouldn’t mind,” Dove began gently, her face full of empathy. Thronnir nodded a little too rapidly and opened the door wider, paused, then stepped outside and closed it behind him. 

 

“My son, he doesn’t know. I don’t want him to overhear anything,” The nord explained before striding past them toward the mill. Claret very much doubted that the kid didn’t know something was wrong with as shitty as Thronnir looked, but she agreed, a child didn’t need to overhear what she was going to ask. When they were just past the mill under a group of thick, twisted trees, Thronnir stopped and turned back to them, leaning against a trunk with his arms folded over his chest. 

 

“So, what do you want to ask?” He questioned, though honestly he looked like he really didn’t want to know. 

 

“We were hoping that you could tell us about your wife,” Claret stated. There. She’d done it. But damn, she hoped he didn’t shatter to pieces in front of her. He shuddered out a breath and seemed to muster up his strength. Good boy. 

 

“Laylette is...was a good woman. She disappeared a few months ago with only a letter that she’d gone off to join the Stormcloaks. The last time that I saw her was that evening. She said that she was going to meet with Alva. Y’know…” He blinked a moment, rubbing the back of his neck, “ It was really strange. She hated Alva and then one day they were suddenly good friends. When I asked Alva about it after Laylette never came home she told me that my wife never showed up.”

 

“I see. This Alva, could you tell me where her home is?” Claret asked, eyes narrowing dangerously. The vampire from last night. Ugh. She swallowed back a growl. Claret bet every last septim that Alva had turned Laylette into a vampire. 

 

“She lives next to the guard house, behind the herbalist, you don’t think,” Thronnir swallowed, “that Alva is a vampire? Impossible.”

 

His eyes were showing a little too much white and sweat beaded up on his forehead. He looked like he were going to be sick. Claret sighed. 

 

“Maybe. Either way, I need to speak with her. She could be lying about not seeing your wife and I want to find the person responsible for making your wife into a vampire,” She replied softly and without giving him a chance to say more, she turned on her heels and strode away, Cicero in tow. The jester moved to walk beside her, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. 

 

“You already know what she is, we could have just gone to seek her out directly,” He mentioned and Claret nodded slowly. 

 

“Yes, but I had to know if there were others aside from Alva involved in this. While this doesn’t really confirm anything, at least I am more certain that she is responsible and there aren’t any more suspects to add to the list,” She explained, examining the sleepy town carefully as they walked. There were barely any people moving about this early in the day, much to her relief. She still had plenty of time to scout Alva’s home before too many people were about. And hopefully, just hopefully, the woman was in her coffin.  Wouldn’t that make life easy? The two wandered over to the home that belonged to the supposed vampire and Claret pondered what to do on the way. Bursting in seemed out of the question and doubtless the guards would be all over her for it. Also, it may tip off any other vampires in town and that was also just asking for trouble. 

 

“Cicero,” She began, feeling the jester brush against her as she leaned against one of the roof supports between the guard house and Alva’s. 

 

“You any good at picking locks?” She asked. He smiled. 

 

“Of course, but I think this would be an excellent learning experience for you, Dove,” He chuckled and twirled some loose strands of her hair about his gloved fingers in what was quickly becoming a habit of his. She shot him a glare.

 

“Learning experience?” She growled, raising an eyebrow skyward. He nodded enthusiastically. 

 

“This is a very useful thing to know how to do. Surely Dove had had to...deal with misplaced keys in the past yes?” The red head asked curiously. 

 

“Sure, but in those cases I just knocked the door down,” She stated blandly and he laughed. 

“My strong little Dove. You and I both know that will not be good in this situation. Luckliy for you, I am such a good teacher, hmm?” He cooed, nipping at the shell of her pointed ear and earning a pretty blush from the grumbling woman. “Come now, I’ll show you what to do.”

 

“What about the,” Her words trailed off as a man in Morthal’s guard uniform strode past them and Cicero eyed him playfully out of the corner of his eyes. 

 

“Rule number one. People will listen to their fears above all else, usually,” He murmured to her, waiting with all the patience of a saber cat stalking a rabbit. Suddenly he pushed away from her with a shriek of horror that had Claret flinching and watching him with surprised eyes as he stared toward the remains of the home that Claret had encountered the ghost within the previous night.

 

“V-vampire! Oh~! It’s so horrible! Chasing a child, quick someone help that poor boy!” Cicero cried loudly, face contorted in panic. The guard was before them quickly, looking startled and confused. The jester clutched at the man’s tunic tightly and pointed toward the destroyed home frantically. “Quickly, you must do something! Save that poor child before that monster eats him alive!”

 

“Quick, inform the Jarl’s steward to send reinforcements! I’ll go and stall the beast!” The guard declared, though it was obvious that the prospect of fighting a vampire had him more than a little pale. He drew his weapon and trotted toward the house in search of the threat. Cicero turned to Claret then and pushed a set of lockpicks into her hands with a grin. 

 

“We have time now,” He purred to her, leading the bewildered woman up the steps to Alva’s door. He crouched and the shadows cast by the building seemed to condense around him. “ Come Dove, the clock is ticking.”

 

She mimicked him, unsteadily. She liked to sneak but had never done so for stealing or breaking and entering and definitely not in the middle of the morning. Cicero was around her then, body flush against hers and hands ghosting across her armor in unfelt touches that she shivered against regardless. Tease. Her blood hammered in her ears as she positioned the pick in the lock. He slid his hands up along hers to steady her, guiding the dagger in place at a sharp angle. 

 

“Test it, listen to the lock and it will tell you the right way. Turn it, that’s it,” He cooed encouraging in her ears, licking at a bite mark he’d left high on her neck this morning and she swallowed a moan. Oh she was going to make him pay for this. “Now rotate the dagger, perfect.”

 

The lock rasped open with a soft click and he urged her inside, closing the door silently behind them. To her relief, the house was empty of anything living. The hearth was banked  to glowing embers and the nearly kept home was silent. They peered about, not really spotting anything in particular that was out of place. It was your average one room home with its small sitting area by the hearth that was set up for cooking, some minor storage, and a modest double bed by the far wall. There were no knickknacks, no special objects of interest that most people gathered over time in a home. It barely looked lived in at all, actually. Cicero was staring intently at a bookshelf across from them, lips pursed in thought. She watched him move to it curiously, unsure of his intent until there was a small clack and the whole thing moved to the side to reveal a stairway down into the unknown. 

 

“Tricky,” She breathed, impressed by his forethought. It also had her wondering not for the first 

time about what the man did for a living. She most likely didn’t really want to know. Claret moved down first, partly because she had to salvage a bit of her pride at missing the hidden door, but mostly because if there was something contagious down there waiting to infect them, she was the one that could handle it. The wooden steps creaked under her feet softly and she cursed her lack of skill in this area once again.Cicero glided along behind her like a specter and her competitive side snarled internally. She tried to soften her steps, despite the added weight of her armor and let her eyes settle in the pitch black room. Her eyes could see just as easily in the dark as in the light, if not better and she scanned the room carefully. It was a little cosier down in the basement, several dressers and wardrobes lining the walls, jewelry and fine makeups on a little vanity in the corner. It was definitely the room of a woman who thought herself a noble. 

 

The coffin in the center of the room on a little raised, stone dais had her heart skipping. She refused to focus on the feeling. She would not be afraid of that little bitch, Alva. Afterall, the bloodsucker had tried to cloud her mind. More importantly, Claret had hated the way Alva had looked at Cicero. She pulled free her daggers and nodded to Cicero to pull open the top of the casket. He moved it quietly to reveal the sleeping woman. She didn’t breathe, didn’t move, none of the little things that mortals did. She just was. A perfect, beautiful corpse. A nasty taste filled Claret’s mouth and she had to resist outright killing the creature. She needed answers first. 

 

She rifled through one of the pouches on her belt and pulled out a small vile that let out a faint green glow. Her eyes didn’t move an inch from the vampire as she soaked her blade in the liquid, ignoring the nearly physical touch of Cicero’s stare on her. And then she was kneeling, dripping weapon making a quick, slice across the vampire’s chest near her heart. Alva’s eyes flew open and a choked cry left the blonde’s constricting throat as the effects of the potion kicked in. 

 

“Would you please light a torch, Cicero?” Claret asked softly. The warm light flooded the spacious room and the white haired half elf perched casually on the side of the coffin. 

 

“Good morning, Alva. So sorry to wake you, I am sure you just went to sleep,” Claret began, feeling better that the creature was immobilized, at least temporarily. Fearful, angry blue eyes glared up at her and the sight brought a small smile to Claret’s lips. 

 

“We need to restrain her. The paralysis won’t last for too long and I want her to answer a few questions,” She said, looking about the room for something that would be strong enough to pin down a vampire. They were stupidly strong and though Claret could hold her down with her own strength, she really didn’t feel like getting all cut up today. The loud thunk of metal on stone had Claret jerking around to look at Cicero. He’d pinned one of the vampire’s wrists to the bottom of the silk lined coffin and skewered it with a silver dagger into the stone below. The skin around the blade sizzled in reaction to the undead creature and the body trembled violently from the pain. Claret blinked at him in a mixture of mortification and surprise. 

 

“Well, you wanted her held down,” He chuckled at the look on her face as he repeated the same with both of the woman’s feet. The strength he put into each thrust down was terrifying. How was this man even a human? Cicero held out a fourth silver blade to Claret, watching her with eyes that had gone as still as the sea of ghosts and just a cold. They were the eyes of a predator, unfeeling, unremorseful, and calculating. Her skin prickled as she hesitated under that stare. He just sat there as though he had all the time in the world. He was waiting for her, letting her decide what she was going to do. Claret tended to avoid silver herself, considering her own aversion to it. She eyed the hilt of the dagger held out for her by the man that had treated her like a precious gift only moments before, hands that had been so tender, so kind and now so utterly violent. What in the world was she doing here? 

 

She was a hunter, a fighter, someone that killed in the defense of the innocents of Skyrim and killed with mercy. She’d never tortured anyone before, never intentionally tried to make someone feel a great deal of pain. And yet, Cicero did it without hesitation or regret. It was startling, earth shattering to think about. That didn’t stop her fingers from closing around the hilt of that small weapon. She watched herself flip the blade downward as though she were outside of her own body, watched her free hand drag the stiff arm of the vampire down from where it had been curled on the woman’s chest to rest on the bottom of the coffin. Claret knew that she was standing on the edge of some cliff. They needed to know about the vampires, needed to know if there were more, if there were others nearby. This woman was their only lead and she was a monster, the very creature that Claret feared. 

 

Ronthil’s blood splattered, smiling face flooded her mind and with an enraged snarl she slammed the blade home between the delicate bones of the woman’s forearm and deep into the stone below with enough strength to shatter the wooden base of the coffin. She knew her eyes were glowing, she could feel the supernatural energy of her beasts, the wolf and what she assumed was the dragon rising around her small form. It was in that moment that the poison wore off and Alva began shrieking. She screamed and screamed and writhed against the blades. The more she thrashed, the more her flesh burned. Cicero stood to shut the door tight, the click of multiple locks sliding into place barely registering in Claret’s ears over the blond woman’s wails. Her stare fixed upon the pointed fangs that marked Alva for what she was. 

 

The werewolf let out a low rumbling growl that echoed through the room and had the vampire stilling below. Terror filled, slitted eyes looked up at Claret as though she were some daedric monster from Oblivion. Technically she was, the half-blood thought with a sick little flutter of mirth. Who knew that vampires could be afraid. It was empowering and the gratification that lapped at Claret’s insides was startling. She should be hating this, should feel like a terrible person for torturing someone, something, vampire or no. But Aedra help her, she didn’t feel anything but relief.  Claret was the scary one. Claret was the one that vampires should run from and not the other way around. Alva stared up at her with eyes that were tear filled and whimpered, trying to hold still to prevent more damage. 

 

“Comfy?” Claret asked almost pleasantly. Cicero giggled beside her and she felt her lips turn up into a smirk. 

 

“You bitch!” Alva spat and Claret nodded in agreement. 

 

“Actually, yes. How good of you to notice,” The werewolf replied, “ Tell me, are you the one that turned Laylette into a vampire?” 

 

“You are mad. Vampire? How crazy you must be to believe in such fairy tales,” Alva laughed painfully, locking eyes with Claret in an attempt at gaining purchase over the other woman’s mind. The attempt was feeble at best. 

 

“Come now, we’ve already played this little game, bloodslut. Your little eye trick doesn’t work on me. I am a little out of your league,” Claret snorted. “Answer my questions and I may just let you live.”

 

“Hah, how stupid do you think I am?” Alva laughed, struggling to find a easy way to rest her limbs without causing more pain.  

 

“Plenty,” Claret replied dryly. 

 

“You have to ask her nicely, sweet Dove,” Cicero cooed, leaning into the white haired elf and wrapping an arm about her waist. Dove glanced over at him with a raised eyebrow. He smiled.

 

“Try this,” He cackled, voice twisting with a mad lilt that was more than a little scary as he dangled a little vial before her eyes. 

 

“Is that…?” Dove blinked in realization as she stared at the clear liquid. 

 

“Holy water!” Cicero sang cheerfully. “ Taken from a temple dedicated to Meridia. You know how she absolutely hates vampires, I am sure.”

 

The blond had gone stone still. There was far too much white showing in her blue eyes and her face had gone as pale as marble. Dove’s fingers trembled just a little as she reached for the vial. Alva noticed. 

 

“She won’t do it. Torturing someone, even a vampire  will break her. Don’t do this to yourself, Dove. It’s not too late, you can just let me go and walk away. You can leave Morthal behind and never return and no one would ever have to know about what you almost did,” Alva stated, voice soothing and gentle, a rather tempting song for the hesitant wolf. Or, it would have been if not for one little thing.

 

“I am not so easily broken, corpse,” Claret hissed angrily and closed her fingers around the vial. She palmed it thoughtfully before setting it aside carefully. “Besides, I have a better idea.”

 

“Oh?” Cicero asked playfully, teeth nipping lightly at the shell of her ear. She pulled free her own dagger, the ebony swirled edge shining in the torchlight from the sconce on the wall. 

 

“Why, I think this will work much better. Afterall, Holy water will eventually kill her. A regular blade however, that she can heal from. Over, and over, and over, again.” Claret explained and pressed the black blade into the inside of the vampire’s arm, slicing a shallow cut up the entire length of the upper arm. Alva whimpered against the sting and Cicero threw his head back in a delighted laugh. 

 

“Oh, Dove, you say some of the sweetest things,” The redhead crooned and ran his hands along the inside of the white haired woman’s thighs, caressing her legs through the thick fabric. She watched the woman heal slowly until the flesh was good as new before picking a new spot, this time near Alva’s stomach. Claret looked up at Alva’s eyes then, mouth set in a firm line and eyes humming with that energy. Both the wolf and the dragon liked this game. 

 

“What happened to Laylette, Alva?” Claret asked and the dagger touched lightly to the vampire’s skin. The muscles under the blade jumped.

 

“I turned her. S-she was stubborn. She tried to resist my power and I hated her. Ugly little hag. She caved eventually. I needed a partner, a child to help me and her resistance to fall under my sway made me want her. She was rebellious though. I told her to torch the home so that I could have the husband as my servant but she got all motherly over the little girl and got cold feet,” Alva hissed, the anger coloring her tone at the thought of the other vampire. 

 

“Why did you want the husband? What is the point of all of it?” The half elf inquired, becoming less and less remorseful about torturing the woman. 

 

“Point? What point? Because I want to, you stupid whore. Mortals are all playthings and who better to play with them than me?” Alva declared and there as a little tick to her jaw, a wariness to the eyes that had Claret sneering. The werewolf scented the air and chuckled.

 

“You are lying, Alva. Badly,” Claret spat and dug the knife into the woman’s abdomen, slicing a deep horizontal line through the dress, the skin and muscle tissue underneath. Alva screamed again and the shrill cry bounced about the room. 

 

“Here, Dove, let Cicero show you what hurts the most, hmm?” Cicero murmured as he  wrapped a free hand around Dove’s, “ She’s a vampire so we don’t need to worry about her bleeding to death or anything unfortunate like that.”

 

He guided their hands down to the lower right side of the vampire’s abdomen right near her hip. Cicero kissed along Claret’s neck tenderly, the arm he’d wrapped about her moved her close to his body. He adjusted their hold on knife so that the blade pointed downward. 

 

“Now, slowly so that she feels each and every inch of it,” Cicero snickered against Claret’s skin, watching in amusement as the white haired woman listened to his guidance, The blade sank in easily and it was difficult to not just force it home in a clean stab. Cicero directed the speed and Alva screeched and writhed under them until the weapon was buried into her kidney. Her body convulsed under the acute pain that overrode all of the rest thus far and sobs shook her curvaceous figure. 

 

“They told me to do it!” She weeped, looking down at the duo through fat tears. Blood that was nearly black seeped out from either side of the blade, pooling in the fabric of Alva’s dress and dripping down into the satin of the coffin. Claret could feel the hunger of her wolf gnawing at her stomach, urging her to tear the vampire apart and get at the fresh meat of the woman’s heart. 

 

“Who told you to do what, Alva?” Claret heard herself ask, distracted by the feel of Cicero’s other hand trailing down to tease her through her leggings. Claret swallowed thickly, her pulse wild and a steady growl built in her throat that was more lust than anger. This man was deplorable. But then, she was the one that started this. 

 

“Movarth! Master Movarth wants the town. He sent me here to begin putting the mortals under our power,” Alva answered, voice raw from screaming and chest heaving. 

 

“Good girl. Now where can we find this Movarth?” Claret replied with a warm lilt to her voice that was full of praise. Cicero’s fingers slid against the juncture of Claret’s legs and even through the layers of fabric, the feel of his faint touch had her body tightening in all of the best places. 

 

“ Please, I can’t. He’ll kill me if he learns I told you,” The vampire pleaded, genuine fear of her master filling her voice and eyes. Her skin had gone nearly translucent from it. Cicero helped Claret twist the knife. The vampire arched and let out an inhuman sound that left their ears ringing. “An hour walk north west of town! There is a cave! In the swamp, please, please stop hurting me!”

 

Claret wrenched the knife free and cleaned it on a blood free section of Alva’s dress. The vampire cried openly, fangs biting into her lower lip hard enough to make them bleed as her body began the process of healing the wound in her gut. The silver prevented the wounds on her arms and legs from healing. 

 

“Thank you very much for your cooperation Alva,” Claret said in a kind tone as she plunked up the bottle of holy water and uncorked it. Alva went still again and watched Claret with terror filled eyes.

 

“Y-you said if I answered that you’d let me live!” Alva protested, panic clear in her voice. She looked positively feral now. Claret tilted her head to the side in a curious manner and swirled the little bottle like one would a fine wine. 

 

“That is true, I did, didn’t I?” Claret mused before looking down at the vampire with hard eyes. “ That was when I was willing to play nicely. Besides, no one tries to take what is mine.”

 

Claret emptied the contents of the bottle over Alva’s face and the vampire shrieked again and again as it burned her like acid, eating away her beautiful features until nothing was left of them but skull. Claret let out a shuddering sigh, turned off by the stench of burning flesh but more than pleased to have the harlot gone. She pulled free one of the daggers and cut out the heart, just in case. Cicero helped her stand, silent in the wake of the violence, as if sensing that she needed to digest this new side of herself that he had awakened. They moved back upstairs and the werewolf tossed the heart into the hearth to catch fire. 

 

The duo found Alva’s trall, Hroggar curled in the fetal position outside of the house. He’d apparently tried to mindlessly claw his way inside of the house when he’d felt her pain. His fingers were raw and bleeding. Claret swallowed hard. He hadn’t deserved any of this. They each took up an arm and helped him up. He let them support him and stumbled lifelessly along to the Jarl’s home. 

 

“You return,” The Jarl stated, looking from Hroggar to Claret and back. 

 

“Yes. Alva was a vampire. She confessed to turning Laylette. Her body is still in the secret room beneath her house. We learned that she was just a pawn and that there is a cave not far from here controlled by a vampire master named Movarth,” Claret explained softly, feeling a little subdued. Jarl Ravencrone paled. 

 

“I know that name. I had no idea that he was still in the area let alone alive. What of Hroggar? What happened?” She asked, gesturing to the big nord that rocked silently in place on a bench under Cicero’s watchful gaze. 

 

“He was Alva’s thrall, her bodyguard and toy. We found him like this outside after she died,” Claret answered, feeling a mixture of anger and pity for the man. He shouldn’t have been weak enough to fall to the charm of the vampire, but he also had not deserved to lose his entire world because of it. The Jarl nodded to her guards and the led the man away, much to Claret’s relief. He was painful to even look at. 

 

“I will have my people organize a hunting party to aide you in purging Movarth’s lair,” The older woman stated.

 

“No!” Claret hissed. Everyone in the room froze as her thu’um enhanced the word. “No... I don’t need inexperienced people getting in the way and dying.”

The Jarl nodded and placed a small, weathered hand on Claret’s shoulder with soft smile. 

  
“You are a kind person, Dove. Thank you, truly,” Ravencrone stated and numbly, Claret stepped away and headed toward the exit with her red haired shadow in tow. Kind? Apparently she wasn’t that kind if she could find a sick enjoyment, even a sort of lust in the act of hurting someone else. She wanted to yell at herself, wanted to yell at Cicero for encouraging it, but instead she schooled her features and took the parcel held out to her by the Jarl’s steward that contained several cure disease and health potions. There were many more people that she would have to hurt today. 


	7. Fuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry. Not really.

 

  
  


They had been arguing from the moment they left the Jarl’s home. Frustration welled up inside of the white haired woman as she stomped after the Jester that seemed equally agitated. His steps were jerky and not light prancing, fists clenched at his sides and shoulders hunched. If the situation weren’t so damn serious, she may have found it adorable. Anger cooling slightly, Claret found her gaze wandering down along the plans of his leather clad ass, fighting off the stupid smile that tried to worm its way across her face. Yes, the Fool had a nice butt. It wasn’t her fault that he had decided to stomp along like the distraction he was in front of her. The gates of Morthal were solemn, with several eyes watching the duo pass with a mixture of pity and relief. They weren’t going into the marsh. They didn’t have to walk right into the waiting teeth of the vampires. Loamy soil gave easily under Claret’s boots, the rich scents of water, soil, and vegetation thick in the crisp early afternoon air. She would need to be quick in the hunt. 

 

She knew very little about vampires, if she were honest with herself. They were nocturnal, not able to be active in the sun. They were allergic to silver, like Claret, and they were similar to draugr with their aversion to holy items and fire. She had learned last night that they were stupidly fast, hit like a mac truck, and had claws that cut through flesh like tissue paper. The white haired woman fought back a shudder. They could also fly, she reminded herself. Images of Ronthil being yanked up into the air by a massive, gray hand had her throat running dry. Yeah, they could definitely fly. She doubted that would be an issue as long as she kept them inside of the cave. Twisted trees and tall grasses lined the path they followed to either side and it wasn’t long before the gates were out of sight.

 

“No! Cicero is going with you. Dove is not going to have all of the fun by herself,” He snapped, voice gone up a few octaves in his distress. She growled low in her throat. They had been going in circles for what seemed like a small eternity. He wanted to go slay vampires with her. She appreciated his enthusiasm and the idea of having backup in the lair was tempting. However, the fear of the redhead getting hurt or worse had Claret protesting vocally. Her arms went around his slim waist, bringing the both of them to a stop in the middle of the empty swampland. He tensed briefly and then gradually relaxed in her tight embrace, trailing gloved fingers over her arms. The songs of crickets and birds filled her sensitive ears and she buried her face in his hair, breathing him in and nuzzling into his back. 

 

“The only person allowed to hurt you is me, my sweet Dove,” His voice had gone low, causing heat to pool low in her belly  and she let out a breathy sigh. He turned in her grasp to pull her firmly into his chest, hand curling possessively on her backside, “I have to make sure that sweet Dove is a good girl.”

 

She felt instantly bad for what she was about to do. Dove made a thin cut with the small dagger she’d hidden from him across his back. The effect was nearly immediate. He looked at her with disbelief and rage as his muscles locked up  and she tucked the blade back into its sheath. She caught him easily before gravity to pull him to the dirt and with a frightening amount of strength lifted his dead weight as though he were light as a feather. She could feel him cursing her with his eyes. Feeling regretful, the white haired woman settled him against a tree and fished out a thick rope from her pack. She lashed him tightly to the tree and braced herself for the fallout when the paralysis wore off. It didn’t take long for him to overcome it and he struggled violently against the knots. 

 

“Dove! Untie Cicero right this instant!” He all but screamed, twisting and fighting to wiggle his arms free. The werewolf smiled sadly at him, cupping his jaw with a hand affectionately. He pleaded at her with large eyes, willing her to listen. 

 

“I can’t let you go in there with me Cicero, no matter how good you think you are,” She murmured against the tightness in her chest that clawed at her throat. The look he was giving her hurt. Betrayal, anger, and disbelief danced in his wide golden eyes. She felt hot tears spill down her cheeks unbidden and couldn’t find the strength to fight them. Cicero’s stare slowly clouded with that madness and rage that she knew he carried in him and the sight of it directed at her made her feel sick.

 

“Release me, girl,” He growled, voice promising all sorts of violence. Dove couldn’t stop the heat that lanced through her gut at the tone of his threat if she tried. She dropped her pack and weapons to the ground at her sides before she began to methodically shuck off her armor piece by piece. Cicero’s gaze heated with lust and she could not stop herself from slowing her movements, teasingly revealing inches of skin to his hungry stare. Armor was stacked neatly and wrapped into the pack she’d brought with her along with her smaller weapons. Dove bit her lower lip and an idea flooded to the surface of her mind. She fixed the Jester with a hungry stare. Maybe she could make it up to him? When she was nude in the noonday haze, Claret pressed herself against him and kissed his slightly chapped lips hard. A needy moan rumbled in his chest and it took far more effort than she would have liked to pull back from him, “ Dove.”

Her fingers slid up under the shirt of his motley and he writhed against her chilled fingers. Her nails scraped up his sides lightly and he fought against his bindings again in an attempt to get closer. Claret was by nature, an opportunist. She dropped to her knees before him and smirked at the sound of his strangled moan. He had an inkling of what she was up to. The jester couldn’t even bring himself to be mad about it either, not when her hot mouth was trailing nips and licks along his abdomen and her little hands were fighting with his breeches. His breath hitched when cold air met the skin of his already painfully hard erection and his wild eyes flicked down to the top of her head. He knew all too well that she was trying to distract him, to make him less angry at her for what she was going to do and he hated himself for falling for it. His traitorous body needed her like air and the handful of couplings they’d had in the early hours of the morning had only made his appetite more ravenous. 

 

Shyly, her eyes flicked up to his , pretty flush on her cheeks, still so unsure, so inexperienced. He resisted smiling at her. No, he was mad at her, he had to remember that! But Sithis, did being helpless and left to her mercy have parts of him purring like a contented cat. He knew all too well that he enjoyed being dominated, though only a few rare people had managed to do so without him outright killing them. Her hot breath fanned along his sensitive skin and he writhed under the sensation. She gave him a teasing, tentative, timid lick along the middle of his shaft and he clamped down on the whimper that threatened to tear free of his lips. Claret repeated the action, a little more boldly this time, small hands curling around the base of him gently. She lapped at the small bead of fluid that had gathered at his slit the taste pulling a hungry groan from her that made Cicero shiver. She wasn’t playing fair at all! His eyes slid shut under the feel of that tongue ghosting along him over and over, head thudding back against the trunk of the tree. The redhead fought against the tight knots that held his shoulders and legs tight to the tree, arching to get just a bit more contact with her. 

 

Claret smiled against him, and pulled back entirely, earning an outright whine from the jester. The look on her face had a lick of fire rolling along his spine. Those eyes had blown wide to fill most of the aqua with black and he watched her drag her tongue over her lips and nearly lost it right there. Her mouth closed around him and he lost the ability to pull air into his lungs. Hot, wet, and soft, her mouth sucked at him like a candy treat and he cried out. His hips thrust to try and push deeper into that warmth, but her strong hands prevented him from moving. She took her time, adjusting to the feel of having him in her mouth, to his taste that was a little bitter and yet pleasant all the same. Claret bobbed her head shallowly, her tongue sliding along the soft skin experimentally. Cicero’s moans and writhing was all of the encouragement that she needed. She tried taking more, ignoring the tensing of her throat at the uncomfortable sensation. 

 

The white haired half elf swallowed and Cicero bucked hard, the rope protesting under his strength that took Claret by surprise. His length brushed the back of her throat and she had to force herself to relax, gag reflex threatening to take over. She forced him back against the tree by his hips with a rough push that only had the jester more riled. Claret could smell her own arousal on the air and she lowered a hand down to tease at her folds.

 

“Ugh, Dove, you naughty girl, you, “ He gasped out trying to hold himself back. She circled her sensitive spots with a set of fingers and picked up the pace on him, much to his relief. Claret could feel him growing harder under her tongue and moaned at the thought of making him feel good, knowing that he was this way because she caused it. She pressed fingers up inside of herself, frantically thrusting in time with her movements on Cicero. 

 

“D-Dove! I!” He warned, toes curling in his boots as every muscle tensed tighter than a bowstring. She let out a growl low in her chest that vibrated up through him and he came with a shout, spots clouding over his vision. Claret struggled to swallow all of it down, the thick fluid warming her belly as she tightened around her own fingers in response to his end. She pulled back with a gasp and looked up to meet his dazed face. 

 

“No fair,” He panted out and she grinned up at him cheekily. She stood, impulsively pressing her fingers that were still soaked with her own juices to his parted lips. He sucked them into his mouth with a happy sound, cleaning them eagerly and fixing her with a heated stare that had her wanting nothing more than to untie him and forget all about the vampires, “ Let me down Dove, do it now and I won’t be so rough with your...punishment.”

 

“I can’t do that, Cicero,” She murmured, fixing his clothing back into place. She trailed shaky fingers through his hair tenderly, tucking it behind his ears. He looked up at her with hurt in his eyes that had her heart clenching in her chest, “ Stay here where you are safe and I’ll let you do whatever you want to me.”

 

“Careful, Dove, you may regret telling me that,” He stated, emotion bleeding from his features as the predator once again took over. He watched her with anticipation, dark, sinful promises dancing in the golden depths of his eyes and she shivered. 

  
  


“I’m sorry,” She stated and backed away from him. Claret focused on the wolf, the creature side of her, the side that she had forced back time and time again and she closed her eyes to the outside world. Cicero froze in place, feeling magic in the air with the stench of ozone. Power electrified the area, the fine hair on his arms rising on end as Dove seemed to curl in on herself. She was turning, he realized with a morbid sort of fascination that dampened his anger slightly. He’d never seen her actually become the wolf. Actually, now that he thought back on it, he’d never seen anyone become a werewolf before. Claret saw the wolf in her mind’s eye, the beautiful, powerful, white creature that stalked through the corners of her thoughts and she reached out for it. Fur brushed along the insides of her skin and her senses amplified many times.  

 

Most werewolves transformed with a violence, a pained gnashing of teeth and grinding of bone. Claret did none of these things. The shift was dramatic, but so utterly seamless that that process was almost elegant in a way. She grew as fur spread over her in a ripple of silver, jaws elongating, ears migrating up her skull. In a matter of seconds, she stood changed, walking upright, unlike most werewolves that hunched awkwardly on their hands. The wolf woman stood close to nine feet tall, posture stiff, and proud. A thick mane of long white fur flowed down her spine much like her natural hair in twisting waves, thinned white fur covering every inch over her muscular body that had become a perfect blending of wolf and woman. She was still noticeably female, breast heaving from the exertion of the change. A long tail flicked behind her as she lowered herself to the ground, snatching up the Pale blade in its holster and shrugging it over her back snugly. She flexed ivory claws and inhaled the air, the scent of Cicero surprisingly not pulling her hunting instincts to the forefront. Glowing eyes that looked the color of tropical oceans looked down at Cicero with a feral intensity that had the jester hunching in place against the tree. He was not afraid of his Dove. She would not hurt him. Would she? And then she growled lowly at him, a quick baring of fangs; a warning, before turning and bounding into the marsh on four limbs with a speed that was startling for such a large creature.

 

Cicero was left relearning to breathe after the white werewolf vanished like a wraith into the fog. He hung there, sweat beaded up on his forehead and shaking from the aftereffects of everything. His beautiful Dove was so very afraid of him being harmed. It was endearing, if not incredibly annoying. It left a warmth curling within his gut to know that someone cared enough about him to go to such lengths, but it also infuriated him. Foolish, stubborn woman!

 

Claret moved through the swamp at a breakneck pace. As tempting as she knew her offer had been for the redhead, she also knew better than to trust him to stay put. He was just as stubborn as she was. She needed to move quickly to get a head start. The werewolf loped along, bounding over fallen logs and skirting muck and water, not wanting to leave traces of her passing if she could help it out of habit. She followed the scent of death, of old blood, and something almost reptilian. Vampires. The cave was well hidden among the rotting trees and rocky outcroppings and she slunk inside as quietly as she could manage, staying low to the ground. It was dark and well used, the flicker of torchlight reflecting off of her eyes. The first thrall, was seated at a small table at a fork ahead. She was Imperial, unknowing of the danger mere feet from her and when Claret took her, it was face first, the big werewolf clamping wide jaws around the woman’s face and twisting sharply with a crunch. The woman wasn’t given a chance to so much as scream.

 

The werewolf fell on the body, Claret unable to deny the side of her that demanded flesh. She sheared aside the chest armor and ribcage in a sharp pull of talons, teeth yanking free the woman’s heart. She’d gotten a lot of practice at such things. The coppery tang of blood and meat slid down her throat in a quick snap and she moved on, senses straining for more targets. Another thrall was moving fresh bodies ahead, she could smell them. They couldn’t be more than a night or two old. Hunger urged her on and she dropped down on him from above, cleaving the man’s head from his shoulders with a slash of claws. Again, she feasted, then turning to the mostly drained corpses the man had been setting into a pit to bury. She feasted on their hearts as well, unable to hold back the need and unwilling to waste the deaths. 

 

The next room she came to held several vampires, all tucked into beds for the day. The concept would have been a bit humorous were she in her right mind. She fell on them one at a time, mercilessly, until a shrill scream caught her attention. A vampire stood in the door to the next chamber, terror clear on her face as Claret turned to look up from the dead Dunmer she was digging the heart out of. Everything erupted into chaos. 

 

Pain lanced up her shoulder, pulling an enraged snarl from the werewolf. She lunged at the vampire in the doorway, ignoring the other two that had jerked awake. Her claws caught the woman on the hip, slamming her into the wall with enough force to send splintering cracks along the cavern around her body. Shouts and the hum of magic filled the air around them and Claret let loose a howl that summoned up two spectral wolves. The summoned spirits darted after the weakest in the room together, chasing down a screaming vampire that tried to flee from the glowing beasts. Claret could feel the strikes of weapons against her body, but was beyond registering the pain. If anything, the feel of metal slicing her back, the tug of blood from her wounds and sear of magic urged her on. 

 

Yes, yes, yes more! Her mind screamed, eyes alight with an excited craze that was all bloodlust. Adrenaline and instinct had her flipping and dodging, pouncing on anyone stupid enough to let her get close. The crunch of bone and warm spray of blood filled her jaws as she killed another. Her vision had begun to grow a bit hazy. Apparently she was more hurt than was tolerable. That pissed her off even more. She paused in digging for her latest victim’s heart when all of her fur rippled to stand on end. Growling low in her chest she rose to her full height, eyes settling unhappily on the source of the terrible feeling. Another vampire. This was stronger, she felt, just from the magic he was calling up. The werewolf strode forward, fully intending to tear the vampire apart, only to end up with a face full of lightning. She howled in pain, muscles seizing up in agony as the magic sapped her remaining stamina and sent her to the ground. No! 

 

Panting and twitching from the shock, Claret fought for air, the wolf receding back inside with what little strength she had left. Blood coated her, most of it not hers, but definitely enough of it to cause problems. Shakily, she forced herself to pull her sword free from the sheath on her back, the wounds on her sword arm screaming in protest. A melodious laugh filled the cavern. She glanced up unhappily at the vampire. 

 

“Movarth, I assume?” She huffed, struggling to her feet. She ignored her nudity, despite the lecherous, stare he fixed on her. He was trying to throw her off, and she could not afford to let herself be distracted by something as stupid as modesty. 

 

“Lord Movarth, you animal,” He sneered, red eyes filled with anger. She couldn’t really blame him. She did sort of murder most of his little party. 

 

“That’s funny coming from a corpse,” She spat, glad that her words sounded more confident than she was. There was movement behind her then. A shuffle and a shout that had Claret whirling far too slowly. A flash of fang and then suddenly red. 

 

“No!” The shriek left her lips before she could stop it. Cicero stood between her and a vampire that had nearly snuck up on her, the creature’s fangs buried deep in Cicero’s forearm that he’d managed to put between himself and the vampire. Claret’s stomach plummeted into her toes. He gutted the vampire with a pained grunt, kicking it aside and throwing a set of daggers in the same movement. The silver thudded into the corpse’s face with a terrifying precision, dispatching it quickly. Claret spun, sword ready to decapitate a second that had tried to attack her while she was distracted. The body fell to her feet and she whirled again to check on Cicero only to stop cold in her tracks. Movarth had Cicero against his chest, the red head limp in his grasp, fangs buried deep in the side of Cicero’s neck. The jester looked pale, twitching as he tried to force his muscles to work. 

 

“Drop the sword, mutt, or I will snap him in half,” Movarth commanded as he pulled back from feeding on the smaller man. Claret saw red. She dropped the weapon angrily, skin growing pale from a mixture of blood loss and the sight of Cicero in his arms, unmoving. 

 

“Cicero! Cicero look at me!” She called out, ignoring the vampire, desperate for a response from the Imperial that was bleeding heavily from the bite. Movarth had not been gentle, the skin and meat shredded from fangs. Golden eyes weakly rolled to fix on her and had to fight back the terror that threatened to stagger her. He fucking smiled.

 

“Good dog. I think I will keep him. Turn him to help replace all of my children that you so rudely murdered,” The vampire drawled, petting Cicero’s hair almost lovingly. If Claret thought that she couldn’t get any angrier, she was very, very wrong. 

 

“Now then, you are going to submit to me, girl. I could use a good guard dog,” He purred. Two mortals approached her from either side and she tensed, ready to defend herself if needed, “ Ah ah ahh, now that isn’t nice, my new little pet. You are going to be a good girl and let these fine gentlemen put you in your new cage. Disobey, and I will kill your little friend here.” 

 

She glared with all of the hate that she could muster at the vampire. unkind hands tugged her roughly back from the main room and she went reluctantly. 

 

“Harm him, and I will kill you as slowly as I can, Movarth,” She spat before she lost sight of the tall man and her lover. The duo dragged her through the winding tunnels to a large open arena, the petrified and angry woman frantically looking about to get her bearings. She was tossed unceremoniously into an empty cell. She grunted softly as she hit the ground, hissing at the agony of her wounds being agitated further. Snarls sounded from either side of her and Claret bared her teeth, looking right and left to snapping jaws that lunged at the bars to try and get at her. Wolves. Of course. She snarled low in her chest and the two canines hesitated. They both slowly lowered themselves to the ground in submission and Claret turned her attention back to the thralls that stood emotionless observing. Every inch of her ached. She was covered in gore and filth and her wounds seeped blood pretty steadily. The stench of urine and more disgusting things clouded her senses and she gagged. 

 

Panic swamped her and she pressed herself against the cleanest stretch of wall she could find. Cicero was hurt and he was in the vampire’s hold. The very thing that she had desperately tried to avoid happening had happened anyway. Hot tears threatened to spill from her eyes and for once, she didn’t bother trying to fight them. He was in danger because she had stupidly agreed to helping the Jarl. Because she couldn’t say no and just move on. He had thrown himself into danger to help her. She was an idiot.

 

Claret lost track of time, falling into fitful sleep off and on, only to wake in fits of rage and terror. The wolves to either side of her mostly left her alone, too afraid to do anything more than watch her warily. Apparently they didn’t want to piss off the big bad she wolf. Smart wolves. Another nightmare had taken hold of her, and over the stench of her surrounding she once again inhaled the familiar and unwelcome fragrance of roses and rot and she clawed at her own head, trying to get it away, to wake up, but she couldn’t. It was choking her, filling her with the sickeningly sweet scent that churned her insides violently. 

 

**Claret, let me help you.**

 

“No,” She moaned out in a pained whimper. The white haired woman sought out the calm, comforting voice of the woman in the box, someone, anyone to force back the nightmare queen.  

 

“Mother,” She whispered and the scent was gone. Nightshade, a subtle, soothing perfume replaced it, and the calls of the Daedric woman were swept away. Claret sighed softly at the feel of warm, loving fingers stroking her hair. 

 

**Be still, my child. Rest, you will need all of your strength soon.**

  
Claret could do little else but obey. The woman in the box was right, afterall. She could only wait and heal and pray for an opening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All downhill from here folks. ^_- Brotherhood stuff coming up really soon though!


	8. Keep on Running

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claret is a creature of habit.

She lay in the dirt for days. When she had awoken after her injury induced slumber she had very carefully memorized her surroundings, taking note of a small cluster of openings in the cavern ceiling in the center of what she knew without a doubt was an arena. The holes were high up, too high for even her wolf form to reach and looked too small to be useful as an escape. She instead used them as a count down. Three days was all that it took to turn someone from mortal to vampire. Claret had no idea how long she’d been asleep but she had counted four mornings since then. Her heart ached like some festering wound. Cicero was dead or undead by now. Physically her wounds had healed mostly, though her arm was still a bit tender. She gave it another day or two before it was cleared up. 

 

It had also been a long time since she had eaten anything. They tossed her a small chunk of meat once a day. She refused to eat it. She could smell the fact that it wasn’t animal and while she was in fact a werewolf, she never ate anything but the hearts of people. So she limited the amount the she moved, drank as much water as she could, and waited. She’d either die, or they’d give her something edible. Her stomach cramped angrily from being empty for too long. Sure she’d gone longer without food. It didn’t make it suck any less. Claret instead divided her “meal” between the too skinny wolves on either side of her. They had cosied right up to her ever since. 

 

Night had fallen not long ago. Her keepers stood just as stone faced and boring as ever. They rotated between sets of people at regular intervals and she was never without at least two of them. Claret knew little about vampire but after watching the thralls, she was almost certain that their master could observe her through them. It meant that she couldn’t just kill them and break out. He would know and then he would kill Cicero. Or would he? She fought off another round of tears at the thought of the jester. Would he gleefully bend to his new master’s will and kill her? She really didn’t know. A sudden movement from the guards had her stiffening. They turned as a unit to her and unlocked the cage. 

 

“You will obey. Allow yourself to be cleaned so that you are presentable for the Master,” One drowned and she glared, letting herself be ushered out into the arena. The guards led her up and out of the pit and down a long tunnel to what was obviously a bathing room. A few lesser vampires stood waiting with cleaning supplies with looks of disgust on their faces. Yeah well she’d have liked to see them sit in a filthy cell for who knew how long and come out smelling like daisies. They were not gentle, not that Claret was surprised. She’d offered time and time again to clean herself only to be ignored. She suspected that they had orders so she wasn’t entirely surprised, but they could at least be a little civil about it. Bitches. For a moment, part of her had considered just saying fuck it and killing everyone in the room. Cicero was one of them now. Did Movarth’s threat even matter anymore? Once she was cleaner than she could ever remember being, Claret was led from the rooms. They hadn’t offered her clothing. She was somewhat thankful that they had done something with her hair. They’d sectioned it off and brushed it until it gleamed. They’d then braid several strands of it and tied it up into a elegant updo that showed off her neck on the left side. 

 

More than a little annoyed, Claret trudged along when she was prodded out of the room and deeper into the cavern. She memorized the trek to what she assumed were Movarth’s rooms. They forced her to kneel in what appeared to be a fairly well furnished sitting room of sorts. The stone floor was spotless, covered in a fancy woven rug and several large, uncomfortable looking chairs circled a hearth on the far side of the room. There were no books, no lights save for a pair of sconces and the fireplace. It looked clinical and unlived in. And of course, everything was done in red. Movarth didn’t keep her waiting. The tall, cocky looking man strolled in and looked down upon her as though she were an interesting insect. Claret was not impressed. 

 

“Ah there you are, my little dog. All healed up are we?” He began with a smile that was more of a sneer. Claret ignored him. Movarth of course, did not take kindly to that. He grabbed a handful of her thick mane and yanked it back to force her head up. The werewolf glared hatefully at him, tempted to spit in his face. It would have made her feel better and she was beginning to think it just may have been worth it. She looked up into his faintly glowing red eyes with a mixture of boredom and disdain, slightly amused by how his bare scalp reflected the glow of the fire. 

 

“Vampire hunters sure are getting pretty, these days, aren’t they?” He mocked her, running a clawed thumb over her lowerlip and it took all of her self control not to bite him. Instead she released a low growl of warning that had him smirking wider, “Of course, I’ve never met a werewolf that was a  vampire slayer. Most slayers tend to hate all monsters on principal. I used to be one too, you know.” 

 

“Is there a point to this? Or can I go back to dreaming about decapitating you and feeding your head to your own ass?” Claret asked bluntly and the vampire blinked in surprise before throwing his head back in a laugh. 

 

“Cute. I see why he likes you so much,” Movarth drawled and Claret’s eyes narrowed to slits. 

 

“Where is Cicero?” She asked on a low dangerous sounding growl. Any lesser man or creature would have been running by now. Movarth merely smiled. He gestured to the room he’d entered from  and Claret swallowed hard. Terror snaked through her insides. SHe was afraid to see him as a vampire. Her eyes flicked to the doorway, standing there so innocently. 

 

“ He refuses to drink from any of the mortals I bring him. He will waste away and rot soon if he doesn’t go completely mad,” Movarth explained and she wanted to laugh. Cicero was already mad. “All he wants is you, sweet, little, Dove.” 

 

She was up from the floor in seconds, moving faster than the vampire could really track, which was pretty damn impressive. Claret was at the doorway before he’d managed to get ahold of himself. 

 

“Go to him, feed him. If you do not, then he will become feral and warped,” Movarth commanded but Claret was beyond giving a shit about him. No Cicero was all that mattered. Her heart ached, and she was so very tired but nothing was going to stop her from seeing him with her own eyes. The room she stepped into was sparsely furnished, just a simple table and chairs, a decently sized bed and a hearth. That was all. A second door led into more rooms beyond and both ways in looked heavily fortified. Young vampires must be quite dangerous. Claret stilled in the doorway, eyes fixed on the prone figure on the bed. Cicero. He was far paler than she could ever remember, hair a startling blood red against the whiteness of his skin. He’d been stripped of his motley, at least from the waist up and was covered in thick furs that were tucked tight around him. He looked almost fragile. His eyes fluttered open weakly and Claret swallowed hard at the deep red hue they held. They didn’t glow like Movarth’s but they were definitely inhuman. 

 

“Dove,” He whimpered, a shaky hand lifting out toward her. She felt her feet moving without her consent. He was a vampire, a monster, a mindless, violent, blood sucking demon that would kill the world given the chance. And yet, looking at his trembling form that looked up at her as though she were the only thing in the world worth seeing, she couldn’t help herself. She sat at his side, hesitating only a moment before taking his too cold hand in hers. He noticed, “ I’m so sorry. Cicero is so sorry. Dove tried to keep Cicero safe but he just couldn’t let his Dove go alone. Cicero had to protect her.” 

 

There were honest to god tears in his eyes. The tears, upon closer inspection were red. Blood. They tracked down his cheeks  and Claret could only stare at him at a loss. He was Cicero. He was still a vampire. But gods help her, he still sounded and acted and looked like Cicero. She’d never seen him actually cry before and she very much doubted that he could afford to lose too much blood. She leaned in over him, cupping the side of his face gently and licked away the red staining his cheek. He let out a keening sound that had her heart twisting painfully in her chest and strong, iron arms were around her waist then, hugging her tight against him. Claret stroked his hair and murmured sweet nothings into his ears. 

 

“Mother is alone, Dove. I can’t leave her alone. I have to get back to her. I can’t fail mother!” He whimpered to her frantically and she hushed him, pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

 

“Isn’t this sweet? Drink from your precious Dove, child. I will not be kind if you continue to disobey me,” Movarth drawled in warning from the doorway. Dove let out a snarl at the threat, protectively shielding Cicero’s body from Movarth’s sight, though she knew it was pointless. Cicero had gone far too still under her and she glanced down at him to see he was glaring at Movarth with a violence that was startling. Weren’t vampire children devoted to their masters? Cicero looked anything but pleased. Hope stirred in Claret. Her mind raced. 

 

“It’s alright,” She cooed to him and Cicero’s red eyes were on her again in an instant. “You’ve drank my blood before, remember.”

 

The jester’s slitted pupils blew out wide as the white haired woman trailed a sharp nail down the side of her neck that was on display. At least now she knew why they’d put her hair like so. The scent of copper hit the air and Cicero whined, face full of disbelief. 

 

“B-but Dove hates vampires, Dove fears-” Cicero protested, gaunt face filled with worry only to pause in his rambling when Claret lowered her blood laced finger to his lips. She smeared the residue along his mouth and he blinked up at her rapidly, tongue rolling along his lips. 

 

“You need to be strong for mother, remember?” She whispered, tilting her head to the side in offering. The vampire rose up into a seated position, arms sliding around her waist as he leaned close to nuzzle against her neck. He could smell her fear and he licked the small scratch, earning a soft sound from her. She was terrified of vampires and what they could do and yet she was offering herself to feed him. Cicero had refused to cooperate with the vampire that turned him, had stubbornly turned away from all offerings of blood from his sire and even the thralls that the man had brought it. Cicero was not going to submit to anyone that wasn’t his mother. He wasn’t foolish enough to ignore the power that blood held. Any little drops from Movarth would only add to the nagging murmur of control that the vampire so desperately tried to exert over him.

 

Dove was not one of his minions. None of the blood in her veins was Movarth’s. He couldn’t say why exactly, but instinctively he knew that the only person that he could drink from was the werewolf. Cicero breathed in her clean scent, free of well, Movarth’s germs, and pressed a kiss over the juncture of her shoulder and neck. 

 

“Thank you, Dove,” He breathed silently against her skin. Dove’s heart pounded in her ears with a mixture of fear and oddly enough, want. She didn’t think that she was under any sort of vampire tricks, though in her weakened state, she couldn’t be sure. Cicero’s fangs pricked against her skin, not pressing in, but teasing, much like he had with the dagger and Dove let out a soft, needy, sound, fingers tangling in his unkempt hair that felt brittle and unhealthy against her skin. She assumed that it was from being turned. That was all of the teasing Cicero could handle in his hunger and an animalistic growl vibrated up through his throat as he sank his teeth home through the soft, inviting flesh. Dove outright moaned then, going limp in his hold and Cicero hummed out a pleased sound. Her blood was powerful. It stung his insides much like something that was overly spicy and yet it was intoxicating all at once. Her blood filled him with fire and with something sweet and he had to force himself to slow down.

 

The vampire pulled her into his lap, tucking her close to him as he fed, taking his time despite the urgency to feast on her until she was dry. No. She was HIS and he had every intention of keeping her forever. Power sang through him and he let out his own sounds of pleasure. She ground her hips down into him with an encouraging twist and he chuckled. Even terrified and in the clutches of their enemies, she wanted him. Even as a vampire, the thing she seemed to fear most, Dove was attracted to him. If there were ever an ego boost to end all ego boosts, that was it. Cicero pulled back, running his tongue over the bite again and again until it healed with a combination of his saliva and her own healing abilities. Claret was a mess above him, shaking from a mixture of her own weakness, the blood loss, and what had felt pretty damn close to an orgasm. Her insides buzzed with euphoria, a side effect of his bite, she assumed, Her fingers slid through his hair. marveling at how impossibly soft it had become. Had her blood done this?

 

She blinked down at him sleepily, surprised to see warm, golden eyes staring back up at her. He smiled up at her, a grateful, adoring thing that twisted her insides up into happy knots.The white haired woman was exhausted. Much more clear headed and feeling a million times better, Cicero took a moment to evaluate his Dove. She was weak, her skin much paler than normal and eyes sunken with thick black under them. The werewolf was a mess as she shook lightly in his hold.

 

“How are you feeling, my son?” Movarth asked from a spot near the foot of the bed. There was a moment of madness, a quick, painful flicker of rage that trickled over the jester’s features before he carelessly tossed Claret from his lap and to the bedding like someone discarding trash. He rose to stand, not even bothering to look down at the confused and slightly dizzy woman. Her bewildered stare rolled over the perfect, pale plans of his body, flushed healthy from the blood he’d taken. God he was so heartbreakingly handsome to look upon. The rational side of her protested the thought as soon as she’d had it. 

 

“Much, much better, dearest father,” Cicero laughed and divines, even his voice was a wonderful thing. It played across her ears like a song, the laughter drawing out feelings of bliss from her that she really couldn’t explain. She was both frightened and startled by the reality that she would let him drink her dry, would do anything if it meant hearing that melodious laugh again. What in the world was wrong with her? Warning bells were going off in her head as she tried to right herself weakly,” My sweet little bird is so very weak, too weak to feed me more. Such a shame, I’d hoped that she would be good for at least that. It is her fault that I am this way, the least that she can do is keep me fed.”

 

Claret swallowed wordlessly. Her empty stomach clenched around the thick lump of dread that dropped into it and she fought valiantly to contain the tears that stung her burning eyes. She looked up at the red haired vampire with a growing sense of horror and realization. He had played her. He had known that she wouldn’t have fed him, wouldn’t have surrendered herself to him willingly if he hadn’t been himself, hadn’t acted at Cicero. Fuck. Fuck! She bit her lower lip hard, watching the older vampire clap Cicero’s shoulder in affection with a laugh that was nowhere near as perfect as the Fool’s.

 

“I have plenty of thralls to quench your thirst, should you need them,” Movarth replied, but honestly, Claret had stopped listening to the words. Cicero laughed again and this time the laughter was cruel, sinful, and still stirred want in the depths of her being. 

 

“No, Father is most kind, but making her look so...heartbroken is far more fun!” Cicero drawled, gaze flicking to the werewolf that had curled in on herself on his bed to shield herself from the reality of her situation. There was a sadistic glee in those eyes that were anything but human that chilled her more than any winter night ever could, “ She needs to be fed and cared for so that I can watch her fall to teeny tiny pieces with every drop of her blood that I take. My sweet, faithful, stupid, little Dove.”

 

The pet name had become a dagger in her stomach and she sobbed then, unable to stop the agony from bursting into the room in heaving gasps that colored her face with splotchy red. She didn’t bother to watch them leave and only closed her eyes against the despair that threatened to overwhelm her. It was about an hour later that a vampire arrived with a tray laden with all sorts of food and with a mechanical sort of listlessness, Claret ate. She ate slow, knowing her stomach would rebel against anything heavy. A little at a time, she filled her belly with cheese and seared fish and soup until she was full and miserable. She could do with a strong ale but they only gave her water. She assumed it was to keep the alcohol from her blood. The white haired woman had curled up in Cicero’s bed after eating and slept fitfully waking a few hours later to eat more. She had a lot of strength to regain, but thankfully, her stomach and head felt much better with the food and rest. This repeated for much of the night and when she wasn’t sleeping, the woman was building her resolve. She would have to kill Cicero. That painful fact brought tears to her eyes and she didn’t bother resisting them. 

 

It was not long before dawn when the door opened again. Cicero strode inside with Movarth close behind looking pleased as punch. Claret had already determined that she would kill Cicero when he slept if he were foolish enough to think she would be safe to leave in the room. A mercy killing. Movarth would die slowly, awake, and under Claret’s bare hands. She would bath in his blood and laugh while she murdered him.

 

Cicero’s stare was on her, golden eyes caressing her curves that were accented from the position that she’d taken up on her side facing the door. His expression was blank their eyes met. He’d donned the same armored leather that the rest of the vampires wore. The supple black left little to the imagination and she hated that she loved how he looked in it. There was a long stare between the two of them, something that was filled with a tension that neither seemed willing to break. Then the door click shut. 

 

It was breathtaking to watch the redhead move. He was so damn fast. Claret watched him with with, surprised eyes as he whirled and snagged Movarth by the throat. Cicero was shorter than the bald vampire and he easily lifted the older man up into the air as though he weighed nothing. The slam of a body against steel had Claret scrambling from the bed, searching for a weapon. A cry of pain had her gaze flying back to them. Cicero was giggling. Fucking, giggling! The red haired fool  had used his free arm to yank the other vampire’s arm into an unnatural angle. It hung limp and useless, much to Claret’s morbid fascination. Movarth looked pale and angry. 

 

“Ohoho, poor father,” Cicero cooed. There was a sickening, stomach churning crunch as the jester literally tore the limp free entirely and dangled the bleeding, twitching appendage before the shrieking vampire gleefully, “ it looks like you’ve been, disarmed!”

 

Claret felt a startled, giddy laugh escape her mouth that had dropped open against her will. Her jaw clicked shut with a snap. Her pulse raced like a wild thing as her wide eyes watched the scene unfold in front of her like some unreal dream or nightmare that she couldn’t wake from. Cicero tossed the arm aside like so much garbage, watching the writhing vampire in his hold like a cat with a small, interesting mouse. 

 

“Oh, Cicero has been dying to make that joke for days,” The red head cackled, waiting for the man to stop his constant screaming. There was so much blood. It poured in near rivers, staining the stone below black with the stuff. Movarth must have fed very recently. Cicero tightened his hold on the vampire’s throat until the scream wheezed to a pathetic rasp from lack of air, “ That is much better. Now Cicero can hear himself talk. Foolish, ignorant, arrogant little toad. Did you really think that you, a pathetic excuse of a man could hope to command me?! Hah! And they call me crazy!”

 

“Nooo, no, no, you are not worthy! Cicero has only one father and you are not even close!” The redhead raged, slamming the vampire into the thick stone hard enough to cause cracks to splinter out from behind the body. Movarth clawed weakly at the arm that held him up. His efforts were wasted,” You hurt my sweet, perfect, wonderful Dove! You made Cicero hurt her! but most importantly, you tried to take me away from mother! The punishment should be much, much worse. But I have been away from her for far too long.” 

 

And then those gloved hands were ripping, pulling, and crushing. Great goblets of flesh were yanked free from the older vampire until spine gleamed beneath the light of the hearth. The jester tore the other man’s head from his spine with an angry snarl before chucking it into the fire with impressive accuracy. Flames crackled up around the screaming face that Claret could not take her eyes from as the redhead laughed. 

 

“Nothing to lose your head over,” She mumbled and the jester laughed even harder. Claret didn’t find any of it funny. She was torn between fear, relief, and being overwhelmed. It was all too much for the dragonborn to wrap her head around. Cicero had begun peeling off the leather armor and the white haired woman refused to look away from Movarth’s head that had burnt down to chunks of skull. The scent of burnt hair and flesh was sickening but damn was there something overwhelmingly satisfying about  the whole thing. She flinched violently when the Jester had brushed her bare shoulder with a gentle touch. Wildly she jerked back and turned to look at him again. He was dressed once again in his motley. He watched her with hurt eyes and while she felt back for her reaction, she could not help it. 

 

“Cicero is so sorry,” He whispered, looking positively miserable. And she believed him. He was so utterly sad, eyes glassy and expression pained. Claret said nothing to him. What could she say? Oh, no hard feelings, I totally forgive you for making me feel like absolute trash and for using me to gain Movarth’s trust? She nodded wordlessly, swallowing back more tears herself and hugging her nude chest tightly. The vampire faltered before mirroring her nod and turning to the door. He said nothing more, sensing that talking wouldn’t help anything in that moment. She followed after him, a silent, hesitant shadow. Every thrall or vampire that they ran across met a quick end. There weren’t many of them, mind you, most not surviving Claret’s initial onslaught. They came to a storage room of sorts where their belongings had been stashed. The half elf woman dressed and ignored Cicero’s hopeful look when she began strapping on her armor. She could not handle him touching her in that moment. 

 

She was still trying to wrap her brain around the fact that the jester had lied to the vampires, had pretended in order to fool them into trusting him. He could be playing her as well for all that she could tell. They took their time scouring the den, killing everything they came across. Dove would not suffer survivors and apparently neither would Cicero. He was so eager to help her kill. Finally, she lead him to the arena. The guards had been killed a while ago, and Claret palmed the key to the cages. With heavy clicks she opened the doors to the prisons of the two wolves that hesitantly slunk out, expecting pain or violence. The white haired woman growled softly in her throat and they turned their attention from Cicero to her, attentive, waiting. She moved then, striding past the redhead, up and up through the long tunnel toward the surface. The two skinny creatures trotted along behind her, more than happy to follow the werewolf to freedom. The open air of the swamp brought her to a stop. It was still pretty dark out, the sun barely lighting the edge of the sky. 

 

Claret flinched slightly when boney bodies brushed along her legs and she turned to watch the two dark creatures trot ahead, both looking more that ready to be as far from the den as possible. They paused, looking back at her and she waved them on. They hesitated only a moment before slipping into the fog and from her sight. She and Cicero made their way back to the town in silence. He was giving her a wide breadth. She was grateful for it. The town was very asleep when they arrived and the duo went straight to the Inn. Cicero dropped to his knees before the coffin the moment that they had entered the room. He wept, hands running along the wooden box and Claret couldn’t stay in the room. She ducked out to bath the stink of the den from her alone. After she’d scrubbed herself raw and red, the white haired woman dressed again in her cleaned armor and headed to the Jarl’s home. 

 

Claret was fine waiting in the stillness for the guards to wake the older woman, her face blank and withdrawn. Jarl Ravencrone came to stand beside her at the fire pit, looking somber and hopeful. 

 

“The den has been purged. You will not have to worry about Movarth and his brood again,” the small woman stated, voice hollow, even to her own ears. 

 

“I will never be able to thank you enough, Dra- Dove,” The old woman replied softly. Dove turned to fix her with a dead stare that had the Jarl’s insides freezing. 

 

“No. You won’t,” Dove agreed and walked out into the light of dawn. 

 

Dove took her time as she wandered through town, stopping at the few shops to replenish things that she knew they had run short on. Preserved fruits and meats, salt, a new cloak to replace the one that had been shredded by a very ambitious sabercat  a few nights out from Dawnstar. She hesitated by the stables, eyes rolling over the mounts there appraisingly. A fluffy dappled mare and a few brown geldings were the only ones out and about in the chilly morning. Dove was normally against horses. A lot. They tended to spook around her and her ass was not excited about the prospect of kissing the ground from the top of one. Again. However, she knew that on foot, she’d be found quickly. Dove froze when her thoughts caught up to her. Was she seriously considering running? Fuck yes. She swallowed hard and gripped the top rung of the fence, staring down at her boots. An ache that had everything to do with the redhaired man kicked up in her chest and she let out a shudder of a sigh. 

 

She jerked back at the feel of soft velvet against her fingers, earning a whinny from an equally startled mare. The powder gray horse had apparently not been bothered too much by her wolf blood because she had ambled over to get a look while the two others watched from a distance on full alert. Claret looked up at the curious mare with a bemused sort of expression. 

 

“What?” She asked and the horse moved closer again, this time, reaching out over the fence to nibble at the pack that the white haired woman carried. Claret smirked and stepped back out of reach and the mare stomped a hoof into the dirt in what was clearly a demand. Someone was certainly used to getting her way. Didn’t that sound familiar? 

 

“I think she smells something tasty in there,” An older man chuckled from the barn, setting aside a pitch fork and wiping his bald head with the sleeve of his shirt. “She’s for sale, if you were looking for a good steed. Stubborn and spirited, this one is, but she is fearless.” 

 

Claret looked back to the big steed. She was a nordic war horse, from what the white haired woman could tell, coat a light gray that was covered in white flecks that looked like snow. Her mane was long and just as white as Claret’s, tail a dark ash gray. That same dark gray, almost black trailed down all four of the beasts long legs like socks and the impatient steed snorted and tossed her head unhappily. Claret’s lips twisted into a smile. Just as demanding as a noble lady. The werewolf dug out a carrot from her pack and the horse perked up immediately. The woman let out a soft laugh and broke off a piece, holding it out on the flat of her palm for the horse that mouthed at her hand gently before daintily taking the carrot. 

 

“How much is she?” Claret asked, laughing outright when the big horse butted her head against the small woman’s chest to demand the rest of the carrot. 

 

“You are the new Thane, aren’t you? Killed a whole mess of blood suckers?” The horsemaster asked, patting the mare’s flank. The werewolf reluctantly nodded, averting her stare as a shiver rolled down her spine. Of course the people of the village knew. She had no doubt that the Jarl’s men were crowing about the accomplishment. 

 

“I was never named Thane, though,” Claret replied, handing the horse another chunk of carrot.The horsemaster chuckled. 

 

“That is not the way I hear it,” He stated, before his face grew serious and suddenly very sad, “ She is my daughter. Was, my daughter. Laylette, I mean. You didn’t have to take the time to avenge them, to make this place safe again. But you did. You did and I am eternally in your debt.”

 

Dove swallowed thickly and shook her head to dispel his thanks. She didn’t deserve any thanks for what had happened. No, she deserved nothing but scorn, if not worse. She had failed Cicero, had gotten captured, had nearly failed all of them if it hadn’t been for the jester turned vampire. He deserved all of the thanks and praise. Her eyes heated again from the pain of the raw memories. If only she hadn’t been so very weak. The dragon in her shifted ever so slightly. If only she had known how to use her power. 

 

“Cicero, my friend, was the only thing that helped me survive it,” She murmured and the big man patted the horse fondly. 

 

“Don’t belittle your act. What you did, you are your friend, put a lot of people at ease and to rest. And every warrior needs a good horse. Take her. She is strong and spirited and she likes you already. We call her Empress, since she acts like she rules the world.”

 

Dove gapped at the man, looking from him to the mare that nickered at her curiously. Seriously? She cupped the big creatures face in her gloved hands. Big, dark blue eyes stared at the werewolf without fear.

 

“How about it, girl. Want to climb a mountain with me?” She asked and the horse let out an eager huff that had Claret smiling widely. Within the hour she sat astride the big mount, saddled and loaded with provisions for a long and difficult journey. The werewolf sat on the shifting horse, staring forlornly back at the Inn that Cicero slumbered within, oblivious to the world. She chewed her lower lip, worry and anxiety over the man’s safety twisting her insides into knots.  Vampires were not exactly well received in the world. And while Cicero seemed to be very much still himself under the vampirism, most people wouldn’t hesitate to kill him if they knew what he was. And yet, he was this way because of her. Her guilt was eating her alive. If she had only been stronger, known more, he just might have made it out with his life intact. 

 

She tugged her hood up over her blinding white mane and stroked the mare’s neck. She hoped that one day he would forgive her. With a heavy heart and no small amount of regret, Claret urged her mount in the direction of her destiny. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -hides from stones- ILU! Forgive meee~


	9. Awarewolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drama llamas ahoy~

Nine

  
  


Mountains, Claret determined; after her sixth trip up to High Hrothgar in the following four months, sucked. They were windy and cold and covered in trolls. Why couldn’t the Greybeards have chosen some balmy beachside hiding place? That would have been amazing. Warm sands, gleaming blue water, and a gentle breeze sounded pretty fantastic compared to the gusting snow that she was trudging through unhappily. Claret led her tired mount into the thick, stone stable that was embedded into the large building’s underside near the main steps up into the temple. The dim chamber was pleasantly warm compared to the blizzard like conditions of the mountaintop. After her initial arrival several months ago, she and the inhabitants of the isolated temple had cleaned out the unused stable for Empress and she was happy to see that they had lit the elaborately carved braziers that lined the spacious room. 

 

Empress nickered happily, shaking off the snow that had accumulated on her thick coat. Claret made quick work of removing her saddle and brushing her down. After ensuring that her bedding was suitable and that the horse had plenty of water and food for the night, the dragonborn braved the cold again to enter the main structure above. Arngeir was waiting for her in the center of the main room, lost in meditation. Claret had learned very early on that the old monks were not to be underestimated. They seemed peaceful, serene, and oblivious to the world around them. They heard and saw everything. She had no doubt that they inhabitants all knew the moment she’d neared the top of the mountain, though she couldn’t say how. Magic. 

 

“Welcome back, Ysmir. You were successful,” His voice was warm, gentle and expectant. It wasn’t a question. Claret shrugged off her cloak and shook out her long braid that had gotten unruly in its length with a weary sigh. 

 

“Of course, master. Thank you. It is late, you didn’t have to wait up for me,” She chided fondly and the old man chuckled as he got to his feet. He was tall, like all of the men and women in the temple, oddly refined and elegant despite his simple gray robes and aged features. His long beard was meticulously kept, a trend with all of the men in the temple and his blue eyes were bright despite the sleepiness that lingered there. 

 

“Yes I did. I wanted to make sure that you made it alright,” He insisted. Arngeir was always waiting to welcome her back each time she left and she was grateful for it, even though she protested it. He made her feel welcome and cared about, as though she were one of them. She knew that this was far from true. No she was definitely something different. They were peaceful, pasifistic, using their voices for the worship of their deities and only in absolute emergencies. She was much looser with her tongue. SHouts came to her like breathing. The dragon in her craved them, needed the knowledge that came with them, the power. And unlike the Greybeards, Claret had little reservation in using them. Most of the time she didn’t even realize that she was doing it. 

 

“I found the words that you pointed out. It took longer than expected, forgive me,” She stated, walking with him toward the private rooms. The housing wing of the temple was divided up into several communal rooms, each housing four partitioned beds with modest furnishings. Claret was thankful to be alone in one such room. It was set aside for new arrivals and she was the only new apprentice on the mountain. There were thirty three inhabitants in High Hrothgar, not including the mysterious leader that she’d not yet met. Master Arngeir was second in command, and one of the eldest of them. He, along with three other masters trained her just as rigorously as any initiate to their order. They didn’t go easy on her, constantly pushing her to hone her voice, to shout often to lower the time between her shouts. 

 

Dovahzul was spoken constantly among them, or whispered, in the case of most of the Greybeards. The true force of their voices could be painful for anyone that wasn’t, well, Claret. She barely felt any of the power of their voices, though she new many of them were strong. To her it felt a fraction of the strength of a dragon’s voice. And she had felt several of those over the past few months. 

 

“Good, you are progressing wonderfully,” Arngeir praised her and Claret felt swell of pride and satisfaction under it. It was rare that they complimented her, and so she had come to value each bit of praise they offered. They stopped before the door to her borrowed room and she could tell from his posture that he had something serious to tell her. With a soft sigh he said, “Paarthunax believes that you are ready to meet him.”

 Claret sucked in a breath and all but bounced in place. The mystery and secrecy around the unknown leader of the Greybeards had been killing her. Arngeir smiled at her excitement. She had a hard time containing herself. The Greybeards had all warmed to her quickly because of that eager, excited thirst to learn. The white haired woman threw herself into every question and challenge with a zeal that could only be attributed to her dragon soul. But there was a tension in the old man that had her sobering slightly. He was worried. 

 

“What is wrong, Master?” She hedged, brows furrowing in concern. 

 

“AH, forgive me, child. Paarthurnax would not request this lightly and it is very rare that we allow others to see him. He is very old and we have protected him for many long years,” The man admitted. “Sleep well tonight, Dragonborn, for tomorrow, you will be tested. This will probably your biggest challenge yet.”

 

Claret watched him glide off toward his own rooms with a mixture of anticipation and dread weighing on her mind. 

 

Sleep was...futile, she had learned after hours of tossing. It was no surprise really. After she had left Morthal that fateful morning, she had returned to her restless dreams of the hunting grounds. The Queen of nightmares also frequented her sleep and there was no kind, mothering, dead woman to chase her off anymore. Out of desperation, Claret had taken to sleeping herbs, something that she hated. If she didn’t sleep at all, she would be useless. The white haired wolf was terrified of becoming addicted to the stuff and that fear turned it into a bit of a final option when her exhaustion was too great. The peace of High Hrothgar helped, most nights. It was quiet, secluded, and most importantly, free of the world’s demands. 

 

She hated leaving the mountain. Each time that she did, more people piled even more bullshit on her. It was aggravating and stressful. Add to that her new stalker, Delphine and the woman was ready to be done with the world as a whole. It was too much fucking work. Arngeir hadn’t been pleased to hear about Delphine. The blond haired woman was a member of a nearly extinct order of dragon slayers called the Blades. And she was dead set on forcing the Dragonborn to work for her. Claret didn’t work for anyone. Especially someone so disrespectful. The white haired woman had snuck away as soon as possible and returned to the mountain. 

 

Claret wasn’t sure why the Blades and the Greybeards had a strong dislike of one another and while she was curious, she also had enough sense not to pry. It wasn’t her business and honestly the whole thing reeked of trouble. The white haired woman laid back in her bedding and stared up at the dark ceiling trying to will herself to sleep. And like each moment that she wasn’t focused on learning, on doing things to occupy her mind, her thoughts drifted to a certain red head. Her heart fluttered weakly in her chest and she let out a shuddering sigh. She missed him. As much as he scared her, and as much as she regretted what had happened to him, Claret wanted to see his face more. She traced his features with her mind, his too pale skin, that sinful mouth and amber stare that was laced with just a bit of madness. 

“Cicero, what have you done to me?” She whispered to the room and her mind replayed his response to her after that first wonderful, unforgettable night in the inn. 

 

“Only what you asked me to do.”

 

She shivered and gave up on sleep, now fully awake. Claret hated that she missed the inappropriate fool. She also hated the hollow feeling that remembering him left in her chest. It was something that she noticed not long after leaving Morthal. A dull, thrumming ache that had built to a silent roar centered around her heart the farther from Cicero she had gotten. There had been several times on her journey that she had almost turned back around because of the feeling. occupying herself with jobs and tasks helped. And gradually over time, the feeling became familiar. It was now an unpleasant, yet tolerable white noise in the back of her head, like a dull headache that just wouldn’t pass. That is, if headaches were in one’s chest. Thinking of the redhead always brought the feeling to the forefront. She just felt so...empty. The young woman imagined that this was what heartache must be. 

 

Resigned, the dragonborn slipped out of the warm covers to don heavy clothing and prepare for the day. She cleaned herself in a small washbasin before shrugging on multiple layers of wool socks and breeches. A snug undershirt and heavy wool sweater followed and then her thick coat and armor. Arngeir had mentioned meeting Paarthurnax and she knew from experience that the top of the mountain was freezing, she could only imagine the chill of the summit. Claret braided her long hair into two thick tails that draped over her shoulders and the tossed a thick knit scarf about her neck. With her sword in place across her shoulders and daggers at her hips, she was ready to go. She ate a quite, simple meal of hot porridge before setting the four sacks of supplies she’d brought with her in the kitchen for sorting. The Greybeards had a few small indoor gardens and received monthly offerings of dried meats and fruits from pilgrims. Claret liked to bring back whatever she could for them. 

 

The occupants of the monastery trickled into the dining hall a one after another, each offering their own little greeting to the Dragonborn. Everyone seemed more than a little tense today and the uncomfortable feeling had Claret on edge. Needing to get away from the negativity, she exited the main temple into the courtyard behind it. The winds were harsher than normal, snow stinging her cheeks. Claret wound her scarf a bit tighter around herself and trotted over to the roaring bonfire that permanently crackled on a stone dais near the metal gates that led further up the mountain. she huddled close to it and breathed in the soothing scent of woodsmoke and ice, trying to settle her nerves. She was still tired, but there was no helping it. The world was still pretty dark despite the sun climbing higher into the sky. Thick gray storm clouds clustered overhead and visibility with all of the snow was very poor. It seemed that fall was coming to a close. 

 

One by one she was joined by the Greybeards. They all lined up in a tight semi circle near the fire and faced the gate leading to the summit with somber faces. They looked like they were attending a funeral. The big four, Borie, Wulfgar, Einarth, and Arngeir moved to stand in front of the rest and Claret swallowed back her nerves. Arngeir stepped forward before the Dragonborn, face more serious than she had ever seen. 

 

“In order to reach the top, you must use a special shout. Lok Vah Koor,” He began, and as he and the others had done a few times before, the knowledge that he had gathered about the shout swarmed her shaking figure with light. Whispers trickled through her mind and she breathed, digesting the new ability, feeling it. “This is your final test with us, Ysmir. Leave your weapons here with us and reach the summit with only the strength of your voice. Paarthurnax is waiting.” 

 

She hesitated. She never went anywhere without a weapon. She knew that the Greybeards would not steer her into danger needlessly, and her thu’um was powerful. Claret was far from helpless. Resigned and determined, the white haired woman unhooked her weapons, including the boot knives. Wulfgar stepped closer to the gate and lifted his voice. 

 

“Bex!” The heavy steel swung open with an unhappy groan and Claret stepped forward. She cleared her throat as she approached what looked like a maelstrom of wind and ice and magic that covered the path ahead. Just from looking at it, she felt her insides freezing. That looked painful. 

  
  


“LOK VAH KOOR!” She shouted, her voice resonating with power and suddenly the air smelt of spring, of flowers, and life. The swirling torrent of winter was brushed aside to reveal the road ahead that was little more than a snow buried ledge winding up into the storm. She mustered her resolve and ran ahead, taking big strides to make up for how high the snow rose on her legs. She was cold already, but adrenaline sang through her veins and urged her forward. She had no idea how long it would take for the shout to subside and she really didn’t want to find out. The roar of the wind and crunch of snow filled her ears over the racing of her own pulse and she let out a little yip when a surge of freezing, magic infused air barely missed her as it crashed across the path behind her. Again she used the shout and again the path in front cleared. Divines and Daedra, that wasn’t a very long window of time! 

 

She ran; Claret leaping rocks and skirting around blind corners. Five shouts in and her throat was feeling worn. The shout was powerful and took a good deal out of her. She sprinted across a rickety bridge, not trusting the wood enough to hold her if the winds returned and suddenly there were shrieks all around. Ice wraiths. Their freezing magic burned her cheeks with how cold it was, shards of sharp ice tinkling against her armor. No weapons. 

 

“YOL TOOR!” Her voice was angry and heat and fire burst from it in a violent spray of burning death. Dragon fire was different from regular fire. It was thicker, the consistency like that of something liquid and yet not. It seemed alive and dangerous, hungry and relentless as it melted the unfortunate creatures into nothing. The fire splashed along the snow and rock, burning and clinging even after she passed, until they were snuffed out by the returning storm. Sweat beaded up on her neck and brow and she heaved cold air into her burning lungs, but couldn’t get enough air. The altitude made the air thin and even after spending months adjusting to the mountain, running sapped her strength and left her light headed. 

 

“LOK VAH KOOR!” The shout tore from her and again the sky cleared and she nearly cried in relief. She could see the top! She stumbled forward, flopping to her knees just beyond the path. Her throat ached and she felt as though she weighed a thousand pounds. Claret sat there for a moment, catching her breath. Her  eyes fell over the sea of clouds that hid the world below from view, the sunrise peaked over them and bathed the glistening snow in pinks and golds. Claret’s smile was both triumphant and blinding. She wiped her brow on her scarf and once her heart had mostly settled, she rose to her feet again. The Dragonborn moved up further into the flat clearing, eyes drifting over an odd shimmering distortion that hovered in mid air with curiosity. 

 

“Dovahkiin, at last,” Came a booming voice that had her dropping into a defensive crouch and her eyes shot to the air. A massive dragon circled the peak on tattered wings and she braced herself for a fight. The gray beast landed almost delicately on the top of a word wall that stood at the summit and settled into a comfortable position. He let out a deep, ground shaking rumble and she watched him with wide, mistrustful eyes. 

 

“Drem yol lok, Brinnah,” The huge creature offered in greeting with a deep bow of his head. Mirth, or what she supposed was mirth crossed that reptilian face,” You look surprised, Dovahsebrom. I cannot fault you that.”

 

“Paarthurnax?” Claret asked after she picked her jaw up from the ground. The small woman blinked wide eyed up at the aged dragon whose nearly blind eyes crinkled at the edges in amusement. 

 

“ Geh. Yes, I am Paarthurnax. And for so many years I have waited for you, little sister,” He replied. His voice was impossibly deep and oddly eloquent for a creature that was viewed as savage and evil. The nearly white dragon carefully crawled down from the wall to settle before her, shredded wings tucked in tight to his sides as he observed her. “Come, let us speak as Dov, let me taste of your Thu’um, Dovahsebrom! Give me your fire!”

 

“But won’t that hurt you?” She asked uncertainly, and the old dragon laughed, a joyous, thunder that brought an uncontrollable smile to her lips. 

 

“No, little sister, you will not harm me. Fire is the purest form of our power, our voice. It is the best way to learn of a Dov’s soul. Doubtlessly, you have found yourself drawn to power in all forms, whether you like it or not. You instinctively crave it because your soul is one of us. Power means stability and protection. We Dov test one another to find those worthy of following or in need of guidance. Come, do not be afraid!” The dragon explained and Claret’s curiosity reared it’s all too eager head. She nodded mutely and inhaled deeply. The fire shout poured from her lips in a hiss of heat. The snow around them fizzled away and Paarthurnax let out a low, appreciative hum. 

 

“Very good, very good indeed. You are strong, despite your casing. Brace yourself, child,” He warned, arching his neck to gather air into his lungs. Now that she thought back on it, Claret had never been touched by dragon fire. It had always seemed like a bad idea to stand in the way and take it. Nerves skittered up her spine as she prepared for burning and heat. 

 

“YOL TOOR SHUL!” His fire was nearly blue from the heat, and when it hit her, it crawled over her skin in a rush of heat that made her stagger. The flames embraced her, tasted her, and she found that as she focused on it, that she could feel his intent, his excitement and just, well, him! He felt wise and intelligent. Patient and gentle, sad and oh so very old; his soul seemed almost like a book in those twisting flames that rustled her hair and left her feeling warm and oddly comforted. She exhaled sharply when it ended, looking up at the big dragon with a mixture of surprise and awe. And then she was struck with panic. Those dragons that she had fought and killed. Most had used fire. Had they been trying to test her like Paarthurnax had? 

 

“What pains you, child?” The big dragon asked, his big wing claw brushing her cheek with a surprising amount of gentleness. She blinked up at him owlishly and swiped at the tears that had been pulled from her eyes unknowingly. 

 

“I’ve killed so many of you- us. I wonder how many times I have misunderstood their intent,” She answered sadly and the mostly blind dragon let out a crooning rumble that was oddly reassuring. 

 

“Worry not. Many of us would try to kill you simply for being what you are. Alduin is not a kind leader and he has painted you as a trophy. Young and foolish, our kind will scramble over themselves to earn his favor. And you were not taught how to be a Dov, only a mortal,” Paarthurnax stated and she grimaced up at him. 

 

“Ignorance is no excuse,” She said and he chuckled. 

 

“You are right. Let us remedy that ignorance with knowledge then, shall we?” He agreed and thus began the most intense bout of training that Claret had ever endured. She lost track of time on the mountain. Every day before dawn she ran the gauntlet up to the wall at the Throat of the world after a quick breakfast. Her new master then instructed her in the lore and history of their race for hours, teaching her what it meant to be Dovah and how to be what she was. Afterward, He would train her in the Thu’um. The Greybeards had been nothing compared to the strength of Paarthurnax with the voice. Over and over again he pushed her, forcing her to adapt to the effects of layering multiple shouts over one another, how to counter danger, and how to hone her Thu’um to a fine edge. 

 

And when she wasn’t training in the voice or learning about her instincts, Paarthurnax trained her in strategy. He was once a General in Alduin’s army, and a master tactician. Every night after dragging herself back down to the monastery, Claret felt exhausted. She would wolf down her dinner with a ravenous fervor and collapse in her room only to be assaulted by the Daedric princes.

 

She had been in the middle of meditating on a trio of words under the watchful gaze of her master one afternoon. Her mind was far from the world, focusing only on the words and the supplied information from the dragon souls that she had taken. The deep growl from Paarthurnax shook her from her trance and wide eyed and disoriented, she looked about the blinding snow. Arngeir stood passively a few feet away. She had no idea how long he’d been there but she could tell that the dragon was annoyed. 

 

“ Forgive me, Master, Ysmir, but I have done all that I can to turn the young man away. He insists upon seeing you and claims that it is urgent,” The Greybeard explained. Claret blinked slowly. She rose to her feet, brushing the snow from herself and turning her attention to Paarthurnax. 

 

“I am sorry.I should see what they need,” The dragonborn murmured, stroking the old dragon’s jaw affectionately. Her thoughts flew to Cicero and her heart clenched painfully. Could he have found her? Could he be waiting just down the hill? She schooled her features and tried to calm herself.

 

“It is fine, child. I have kept you away from the world for far too long. Return whenever you wish. I have missed having students,” He rumbled warmly and she smiled up at him in thanks.  Together, she and Arngeir traversed the mountain path. Parting the winds came to her as easily as breathing and took far fewer shouts, despite the two of them walking. 

 

“How long has it been since I started training here?” She asked softly, wracking her brain. She had been so tired, so lost in the training that she hadn’t stopped to think on it. 

 

“You came to us nearly a year and a half ago, though time has sped by us,” Arngeir answered with a chuckle. Claret balked at the thought. Had it truly been so long? Who could have shown up on High Hrothgar? Especially so long after her disappearance. She chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. Something terrible must have happened. Concern turned her stomach unpleasantly. The dim silence of the monastery engulfed them and Claret waited for her eyes to adjust. Pacing anxiously around the main entryway was Farkas. He looked up at her when the door clanged shut and just stared. 

 

“Farkas?” She questioned in surprise, moving down the steps to meet him. She tried very hard to ignore her own disappointment. The tall warrior closed the space between them in two large strides, encasing the small woman in his thick arms and pulling her tight against the cold steel of his breastplate. 

 

“It’s so good to see you, sister,” He all but gushed. She squirmed to find a comfortable way to settle in his embrace, arms going about his neck a bit hesitantly. The pale skinned Nord had gotten even bigger since she’d last seen him, if that were at all possible. His hair now hung past his shoulders, same face paint and bright gray eyes beaming down at her. He pressed his face to her unbound hair, breathing in her scent deeply with a happy sound in the back of his throat. She was sat back on her feet and just barely ducked the back hand he aimed at the back of her head, “ You could have at least said goodbye before you left!”

 

She gave him a sad smile and fiddled with the sleeve of the robes she wore. 

 

“I am sorry Farkas. I just… couldn’t stay after everything that happened,” She replied, dropping her gaze to her feet. A big, warm hand dropped onto her head, fingers sinking into her thick hair to run blunt nails over her scalp in a comforting, familiar gesture. 

 

“I know. I was sent to fetch you,” He said, chuckling at the word “fetch” ironically. His face became tormented then, a mixture of sorrow and rage twisting his handsome face, “ Kodlak was murdered.”

 

The breath in her lungs left in a sharp, painful exhale as though a horse had kicked her in the gut. She struggled for air, tears springing to her eyes as her brain tried to process what he’ just told her. Kodlak was…? No. No she refused to believe it. Kodlak was too strong, too cunning for a pathetic murderer to best him! She dropped to her knees before Farkas and he knelt to hug her close as she sat in stunned silence. 

 

“How?” Her voice was something violent and physical in its rage and Farkas swallowed nervously. 

 

“The Silver Hand. Aela and Skorr took a new blood hunting them for their first hunt as one of us. I guess they went too far. Aela wouldn’t tell me the details. Kodlak asked for you by name on his deathbed. Vilkas is too angry, so they sent me to find you,” The black haired man answered and she could smell his nerves. Was he...afraid of her? That would be stupid. 

 

“Let me gather my things and we will go,” Claret said finally, rising and numbly moving toward her room. She stripped out of the thick gray robes, folding them neatly and quickly pulled on her armor. It had been kept neat and tucked away during her training, but her hands never forgot the straps and catches. In minutes she was kitted out with her weapons and pack. Her hair was tossed into a messy tail to the side and filled with purpose, she strode back to meet Farkas. Master Arngeir was waiting for her. 

 

“Ysmir, we will always have a room for you here, whenever you wish to return to us. Breath and focus,” He said in parting and she returned his deep bow before hugging the old man. It took him by surprise, but he chuckled and returned it. 

 

“Take care of the old man for me. I’ll see you again as soon as I can,” She replied. And then they were off. The white haired woman led Empress along behind them, the paths near the top far too narrow to safely ride her. Farkas had traveled the whole way on foot. Horses didn’t like him very much either. They moved in relative silence, both caught up in their own thoughts as they tromped through the thick snow. Claret’s thoughts were all for Kodlak. Another thing to regret. She had hoped to see him again, to explain why she ran. Now, she had no chance. The female glanced at Farkas when she felt him staring. 

 

“What?” She asked a little gruffly and she could have swore there was a dusting of color across his cheeks though it could have been the snow. 

 

“You, ah, you look different,” He commented, rubbing the back of his neck as he always did when he felt awkward. His gaze rolled over her hair which had gotten even longer, her skin that had been tanned a deep golden bronze from countless hours in the blinding sun and snow. She looked healthy, radiant, the severe contrast of her skin making her hair and aquamarine eyes practically glow. But is wasn’t just physical. No, she just seemed more than what she was. 

 

“That a bad thing or a good thing?” She hedged, brows drawing together in confusion. 

 

“A very good thing. You look...stronger,” He fumbled for a word to describe it and failed. He wasn’t much of a talker, honestly. Words were too much work.  The white werewolf felt both of her browns lift considerably in surprise. Farkas didn’t give compliments. Well, that wasn’t fully true, he did, they were just very rare and usually not typical. Vilkas was the asshole that didn’t give compliments. Ever. The appreciative look that the big man gave her had a light flush coating her face and she averted her gaze, suddenly shy and awkward around the man that had basically been her best friend for most of her life. What in the world was wrong with him?

 

They moved at a fast pace down the steps and into the small town that was nestled at the bottom close to midnight. 

 

“Go ahead and ride Empress. I’ll shift first and run along with you so that we can move quickly,” Claret offered. Farkas looked up at the anxious horse unsurely. She laughed, “ Don’t worry, she will carry you. She isn’t afraid of anything, are you girl?” 

 

The horse tossed her head in agreement. They moved into a cluster of thick woods and Claret quickly stripped, handing Farkas her armor and weapons. She had gotten leaner, more toned over the course of her training, all of her soft curves gone in the wake of tight, hard muscle that shifted and grew thick white fur in moments before his eyes. Even her wolf form seemed more fit as a result. And then they were off. Empress was happy to run, even with the stranger on her back while her owner was a stealthy, white wraith in trees around her. The horse knew the scent of the werewolf, and in turn, didn’t fear the large creature. She lost herself to the feel of the gentle wind that was so much warmer than the summit, the sounds of the crickets and scent of the night, happy to run alongside the big mare. 

 

They ran for long hours until Empress slowed to drink from the river. Claret emerged from the shadows to re dress. They had made good time, but she was left weary from the transformation and would have to wait before she could do it again. Farkas in turn, took her place, handing off his own gear after stripping. She didn’t notice how he watched her face for a reaction to his nudity, her eyes focused on her task. No her mind was occupied by thoughts of the Silver Hand. And on how pissed Vilkas was likely to be. Joy. What had riled up the werewolf hunters enough to cause them to lash out? True, the Silver hand were zealots, convinced that werewolves were monsters and daedric abominations. To an extent, they were correct. 

 

However, the Companions were strict with their pack members. As a Companion, you represented the whole family. You protected Skyrim and fought honorably and you controlled your wolf or they would exile or kill you. Hell, the pack even went out of their way to hunt down and execute rogues that were a danger to the world; free of charge in most cases. Because of that, for the most part there had been a shaky sort of understanding. The Companions stuck to themselves and laid low, staying in groups to be a less tempting target, and the Silver hand kept to more promising prey. Claret hated it. She had always been of the opinion that the pack should hunt all of them down and systematically eliminate the threat. The Silver hand were more monstrous than the werewolves they hunted. Claret shuddered in disgust and rage at the thought of the terrible things that cult had done in the name of their pointless cause. 

 

At least the Vigilant of Stendarr weren’t hypocritical fanatics like the Hand. In fact, The Vigil frowned upon the Silver Hand as well, relating them to bandits and marauders. This was not far from the truth. Granted, this didn’t stop the high and mighty assholes from ignoring the cult entirely. If the Silver Hand were intelligent at all, they would have spilled the secret about the Companions to the Vigil years ago. Of course, their heads were too far up their own asses to reason out such a thing. That or their pride was getting in the way. Whatever. If the two groups of crazies didn’t get along, all the better for Claret’s family. It would make driving them to extinction that much easier. She hadn’t realised that she was physically snarling and baring her teeth until the big, dark shape that was Farkas’ wolf pressed tight to her side, a big muscled arm curling about her hips as he knelt in the dirt in supplication. She cast him a surprised glance, noting how the gruff werewolf had his ears pinned back, large muzzle lifting to nose at the underside of her jaw. Alpha, the gesture said. It had her jerking free from her thoughts and forcing back her anger. 

 

“Farkas?” She asked unsurely and the black wolf looked away almost guiltily. She narrowed her gaze and he whined. Farkas was always terrible at keeping secrets from her. Or anyone in general, really. Lying and hiding things went against his nature. He let out a frustrated huff and pulled back from her with a pleading look in his bright silver eyes. Vilkas made him promise then? Claret sighed and nodded sharply, now angry for other reasons. She didn’t like anyone telling Farkas what to do. She’d always hated how the others tried ordering him about. Farkas was too laidback and content to go with whatever they told him to do to raise any real complaints. So Claret complained for him. Usually violently. Her wolf tore at her insides with a sudden need that was startling and the woman staggered under the lurch of her primal energy condensing. 

 

The wolf wanted out. And she was pissed. No one commanded her pack! That thought dragged Claret back to herself. Her pack? What? No, it was Kodlak’s pack. She knew this. The wolf knew this. They were both happy with that. But Kodlak was gone. A confused wash of anger and sadness and dominance rolled her over like a typhoon until she found herself leaning into Empress to keep on her feet. Claret forced herself to breathe. 

 

“Vilkas had best have answers,” She murmured, posture rigid and violence dripping from her every pore. As soon as Empress had gotten a good rest, they were off again. The horse was antsy under her, picking up on her rider’s tension. The white haired half elf was angry at herself. She’d caught herself doing the very thing that Aela and Skor were guilty of. She’d seen Farkas as lesser. Her instincts has been to dominate, demand obedience from the larger werewolf. She had NEVER done that before. But somehow, that little submissive gesture from the male had awoke some alpha female side of her that she hadn’t even been aware of. She had left the companions a little under two years ago. There was no way that she could have changed that much so quickly. 

 

Could there? Had her time with Cicero and then Paarthurnax have warped her so severely? Claret had been content to follow, to cause mischief and learn from her betters. She licked her dry lips and looked up to the three moons that cast the world in reds and silver , her hot breath clouding up in the air behind her. Not for the first time since reuniting with Farkas, she found herself wishing that she hadn’t left her red haired madman. He always knew how to calm her down and cheer her up, even when she was lost to her rage. Her heart clenched tight and she clenched her teeth, forcing herself to push the red haired vampire from her thoughts. It wasn’t helping. 

 

Dragon reach rose up on the horizon like a foreboding nightmare waiting to happen as dawn rose over the world. The thick, winding keep seemed to look out over the encircled city of Whiterun like some sort of brooding ogre watching over its flock and it did not look welcoming in the least to Claret. But she couldn’t show hesitation or weakness. As much as the Companions liked to pretend that they were civilized men and women, first and foremost they were wolves. Weakness and fear meant prey. They had stopped well out of sight of city guard. Farkas blended fairly well with the deep shadows cast in the red morning, but as soon as the sun raise above the horizon fully, he would stand out like a spot of ink on a white dress. The winter snow was thick, though nothing compared to High Hrothgar and Claret had been forced to shrug off her cloak as she waited for the big man to don his armor. It was too damn warm for so many layers. Farkas quirked a brow at her when she struggled to untangle the thick fabric and stuff it into a saddlebag. 

 

“Too warm down here for you to handle, sister?” He chuckled and she stuck her tongue out at him. She walked Empress the rest of the way to Whiterun with Farkas at her side. The stablemaster himself had shooed aside the stable boys to handle the big gray horse  that carried the Dragonborn. She’d known the man since she was a tiny brat and now he stared at her like she were something to be afraid of, to worship. It had her skin prickling with the need to run. The wind kicked up , tugging the long coat she wore to billow out about her legs and toss cold powder into her loose hair like tiny crystals that caught the sunlight that broke through the thick clouds that hovered ominously overhead. Farkas momentarily had to relearn how to breathe. She looked every bit the warrior goddess the Dragonborn was meant to be, which was a far cry from the scrawny runt she’d been when she had vanished from the city so long ago.

Vilkas was going to shit himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Claret's past is catching up to her. Yes I know Skjorr canonically dies before Kodlak. I have changed things up a bit and more about what went down with the Silver Hand will show up in the next chapter. Poor Farkas. xP Also, I have always found it a bit odd that there were only four Greybeards. >_>


	10. In Which Claret Loses her Shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More awkward drama ahead! Claret confronts the Companions and her guilt over leaving and Farkas is a badass.

The thought alone had a crooked grin lighting his paint marked face. He followed along at his shield sibling’s back proudly, glaring off anyone that came too close as she led the way to Jorrvaskr, the Companion’s mead hall. Apparently, word had gotten around that the Dragonborn had appeared in town fast because they had gained a crowd that watched her pass with fascination and awe. Claret didn’t look at any of them; couldn’t bring herself to meet anyone’s gaze or see the hope and expectation on their faces. Instead she focused on the anger that simmered in her guts and warmed her from the inside out. Both the wolf and the dragon in her wanted answers.

 

Unfortunately, her aloof seriousness only had the citizens all the more excited and enchanted by the legendary warrior made flesh. Afterall, heros were supposed to be focused, intimidating, mysteries, were they not? Sure. 

 

She strode into the mead hall like a small snowstorm and stopped in the entryway with an anticipatory energy coiling about her limbs. Aela was the first to meet her gaze, the taller female rising to her feet at the sight of them. Slowly, the rest of the Companions gathered at a safe distance around the main room, watchful, hesitant. Claret inhaled and winced at the scent of the room. Fear, anger, sorrow, all of it mingled into a bitter stench that had her exhaling through her nose sharply to clear it with a snort. Farkas was a big, warm, wall of support at her back, standing close behind her as she let her eyes adjust to the room. There were several more wolves than the last time she’d walked these halls. Claret wasn’t quite sure what to think. 

 

The harbinger had been against the passing on of the wolf blood, and the last that she had heard, Kodlak had been set on seeking out a cure for it. Claret was torn on the matter. She enjoyed being a wolf; loved the feel of the wind in her fur, the scents of the night, the thrill of hunting and running with her pack. However, the Companions were not a very unified pack. Their alpha refused to be an alpha. The others respected his decision, and all of them went about pretending to be anything but wolves. At least, they tried very hard. The wolf blood called to them all and to deny it was to invite disaster. But Kodlak feared the afterlife. For all of the respect that Claret had for her adopted father, she had always questioned his choice to abandon the instincts to lead. Yes, the Companions were founded by mortals and yes they still tried to uphold the traditions of allowing each warrior to be independant and free to do as they wished. 

 

 However, they weren’t mortal, not anymore, and without a firm alpha to keep them in check, accidents were bound to happen. Skjor and the others of the circle were experienced, disciplined, and for the most part, understood the wolf. But to turn the others? Claret’s sea blue eyes roamed over the hesitant faces in the dim light. Ria, Torvar, Athis, and Njada lingered near the edges of the room and each one of them was wolf. These four had been with the Companions for years as mortal members outside of the circle and Claret had fought alongside each one of them, trained with them, grew to know them as family even if she didn’t get along well with all of them. Now they watched her as though she were a dragon in a sheep pen. It really wasn’t too far from the truth. 

 

 There were also a few new faces among them that she did not remember. A khajit; which was funny, lounged back near Ria, looking large and like typical muscle. He seemed wary, like the others, and a bit confused. She wasn’t fully certain if he was wolf or not, honestly. Her gaze then moved to two men that weren’t far from him, one was a bosmer, younger, and looked to be having the time of his life watching this whole thing play out. Some shiny new warrior pup come to watch the big kids throw their weight around. And the last was a Nord. Red haired, bright eyed, and pale skinned, he matched the bosmer in his enthusiasm. Ugh. 

 

 Claret focused her attention on Aela, the only potential threat in the room. The red haired wolf crossed the room to look down at her, her emotions off of her features, but Claret could see the rigid set to her shoulders, the way her jaw ticked from grinding her teeth. She was nervous and uneasy. It was odd to see the level headed woman wound up, but Claret couldn’t say that she could blame her. 

 

“Welcome home, sister,” Aela began, and the name held a bit of scorn. She knew that Aela was pissed at her for leaving. Infact, of all of the companions, Claret had known that the she wolf would be the most upset and disappointed in her. And that hurt. But it was expected. Claret welcomed it, “ Vilkas is waiting for you with Skjorr in the underforge. What we need to talk about is not for normal ears.”

 

Claret’s eyes narrowed when Aela let out a low growl that mortal ears wouldn’t have picked up on and the pack migrated outside. Every last one of them save for the old maid, Brill, and old Vignar went out to the yard. The white haired woman turned and looked up at Farkas. He flinched. 

 

“I know what you are thinking. I wasn’t too happy about it either, but the others wanted it. We were falling apart. The welps were only being kept in line by honor alone and honestly, it was barely holding them in place. The hand had the advantage. Aela and Skjor talked with Vilkas about it for a long time and he finally agreed,” The big man relented and she could practically see his ears laying flat in shame.

 

“You didn’t say anything?” She demanded, knowing that any protests he could have made would have been vastly outnumbered and mostly ignored. 

 

“You know that I did! And you know how much good my opinions ever do!” Farkas snapped and Claret felt bad for biting at him. It wasn’t his fault that he was programmed to follow. Well, not entirely. Claret let out a huff and invaded his personal space, hands lifting to rub affectionately at his jaw. His bass filled groan brought a soft smile to her face and she giggled when he tilted his face into her touch. 

 

“I know. I’m sorry. I know that you are happy to go with whatever your brother wants. I should have been here,” She apologized  and he hummed his appreciation. 

 

“You know I am going to tell Vilkas about this later, right?” He chuckled and Claret raised an eyebrow.

 

“Oh? So that he can bitch and moan at me for getting my germs on you?” She asked sardonically and Farkas laughed outright. 

 

“No! Because I like rubbing it in his face that I’m your favorite. Makes him jealous,”  The long haired man all but cackled and Claret let out an undignified sound of disbelief. Yeah, right. Vilkas hated her guts. Right? “C’mon, you know, Aela.”

 

 Claret followed after Farkas, feeling a nostalgic sense of homesickness being back inside of the mead hall. She had forced the place out of her head, but honestly, she had missed it. Tilma’s cooking, the warmth of the large hearth, the comfort of the furred beds in the common rooms, the familial companionship of just being with her pack. It had a warmth burning in her chest that almost chased away the unpleasant hole in her heart that Cicero’s absence had caused. The yard was empty when they stepped out into the afternoon sun. They’d added more training equipment. It looked like the patio had been added to as well. The place was looking good and part of her was sad to see things changing without her. 

 

They walked in a tense silence to the hidden entrance to the underforge, known to only the worthy. It was dark and smelt of pack and water and blood. The murmurs of the others up ahead had her tensing tighter than a bow string. This was going to suck. She could feel the press of Vilkas’ energy from the entrance and the white haired woman swallowed hard. He was pissed. Farkas trotted down the tunnel to join them and Claret made herself breathe. May as well go and see what they wanted. She emerged into the main room, a large, circular cavern hollowed out smooth on all sides. A dias sat in the center, stone goblet carved from a stalactite rising out from it. The gift of the wolf was passed along in this chamber. This place was sacred to the Companions and was isolated enough to keep them from being overheard, no matter how loud things got. 

 

“Ah so the prodigal daughter returns,” Vilkas spat with a sneer. He stood at the back of the room on a raised platform before a set of five tall chairs. Those were new. Several more seats circled the sides of the room, leaving the center open. The pack were not sitting. They stood, as if preparing for a fight. Skjor and Aela stood to either side of VIlkas, Farkas hesitantly moving to stand with his brother. She noticed Vilkas trying to take a discreet sniff at his twin and had to hide a grin. Vilkas frowned further. Every eye was trained on her and it took all of her self control not to fidget under the attention. At the moment, she was an outsider, even if she was still technically a companion. 

 

“ Hello, Ass, enjoying yourself, are we?” Claret greeted the bristling man, smiling with false sweetness and batting her lashes as him. The black haired man growled and Farkas made subtle head shakes behind his twin. Even Skjor seemed a bit uneasy near the other male. Vilkas stalked forward to the edge of the platform and Claret felt her nerves vanish under her own anger. He was posturing and it had her own wolf growling. They did not submit to anyone! And if Vilkas thought that she would fall in like with the rest of the pups, than he was terribly mistaken. She moved closer until they were feet apart. Her body was relaxed, despite the tension in her gut. SHe wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of showing that he affected her in any way at all. 

 

“ I see your time away didn’t make you any less of a vile hag,” He hissed and she laughed then, an affectionate, yet mocking sound that had her tilting her head almost playfully to look up at him on his perch. 

 

“And I see that you still haven’t managed to pull that stick out of your ass. Pity,” She retorted and his face grew red in his anger. “I am sure that you didn’t drag all of us down here just to have a temper tantrum at me. What do you want from me?” 

 

He stiffened more, if that were possible and seemed to gather himself, tap into that well of calm that he tried to exude at all times. Lately, it hadn’t been possible. He was volatile and borderline violent in the wake of Kodlak’s death. He took a deep breath and let it leave him in a slow exhale that cleared his head a bit. She was in front of him again and she was just as infuriating as always. They had always been like this, even when they had been pups. He had started it, of course, but it had been her fault for being so damn cute when they were growing up together. Claret had never been one to take his crap, and had been more than a handful. She’d go out of her way to torment him. That had turned into a habit that he liked to believe he hated. In reality, he looked forward to trading insults with her. 

 

“As my brother has no doubt told you, our Harbinger has been murdered by the Silver Hand,” Vilkas began, swallowing down misery. 

 

“Yes, about that. How? And for that matter, why? They wouldn’t have acted without provocation,” She pressed, her anger coloring her tone.

 

“Does it matter?! We should go and murder those bastards!” Torvar shouted from nearby and as one, Claret and Vilkas whirled to snarl at him, flashing teeth. The bearded man slunk back from them, wide eyed and suddenly terrified. Torvar was no alpha like they were and they did not appreciate anyone interfering in the little dance number. 

 

“They snuck in an assassin. They came here looking to join our ranks,” Vilkas began, running a hand wearily over his face that looked so very tired, even in the dim light. He was a perfect reflection of Farkas, but clean cut, wavy locks falling at jaw length. He’d bulked up too it seemed. Silver eyes met her and there was so much disappointment in them, “ Some nord woman showed up here like every other recruit a few months back. She was so eager to prove herself, so devoted to training and taking jobs. Reminded me of you a bit.”

 

It was Claret’s turn to bristle. She didn’t like being compared to an assassin. 

 

“Kodlak was a bit reluctant to accept her. I should have listened to him. But we were low on numbers. And she was… well, she was very convincing.” Vilkas mumbled, looking ashamed. 

 

“Ah, I get it. You fucked her,” Claret deadpanned and Vilkas looked about ready to tackle her, “ It isn’t like you to be distracted by a nice pair of tits, Vil.”

 

“Anyway,” He growled out through his teeth, a sharp glare about the room silencing the snickers. 

 

“In his defence, I trusted her too. She was strong, a quick learner, and definitely not what you would imagine an assassin to be,” Aela added and Claret felt her heart clench. 

 

“Farkas,” Claret stated softly and the big man slumped, averting his eyes, “ You didn’t like her, did you?”

 

“No,” He replied softly, giving an apologetic look to VIlkas. 

 

“We get it, we should have done better. Rubbing it in our faces doesn’t change anything,” Vilkas snarled at Claret who finally had enough. She got up into his face on the platform, uncaring of the snarls around her and glared up at him for all of her worth. The unnatural energy of the wolf seeped out of her every pore and rushed through the room like a tempest. 

 

“Wrong! You are missing the point. Again! Every single one of you shrugs off what Farkas says and knows because he is content to follow. Not ONE of you sees him as anything but a subordinate and because of that, you don’t listen when he speaks,” Claret stated and Vilkas’ eyes rounded in a bewildered confusion. Farkas moved closer to interfere, face red. 

 

“Clar, it is alright. You don’t have to do this and I am not a thinker, we all know that,” The long haired man said disarmingly. 

 

“No it is not alright and yes, you are!” She hissed. Farkas watched her with wide eyes as she stalked around the room, glaring at each of them, “ You want this to be a family. A pack. And yet, you don’t even listen to each other. The opinions and instincts of each and every one of you is important. If you feel something isn’t right, the circle should respond. Farkas is not the only one being overlooked. If you had taken a few moments to think with your head and pay attention to you brother instead of your dick then this may not have happened.” 

 

“Mighty big talk for a welp that ran away the moment that things went to hell,” Vilkas stated in a low, dangerous tone. Claret flinched almost violently. Vilkas knew her too well it seemed. Most assumed she ran off to find the Greybeards and save the world. Vilkas knew better. 

 

“You’re right. I ran,” She confirmed and the room broke out into murmurs. 

“I ran because I was a little girl that had just found out that the continuation of life as we know it rests on her shoulders. Because I had to stand out there on that field BY MYSELF without my so called pack and face a dragon. And then to have the Jarl naming me thane on top of that just HOURS after you rejected me because you couldn’t stand the thought of touching a ‘filthy Sithis worshipper’ like me,” She was gone. There was no stopping it as the pent up anger and hurt poured from her lips. Farkas turned an angry glare on his twin and the underforge had gone deathly silent. She was far from finished, “ I am no hero. I never have been. I was a thief in the making before Kodlak found me and who knows what before then. But I found a reason to learn how to be one and I am learning every single day how to be better.

 

“I’ve been running from myself and I am done. I should have been here. Maybe if I had been, then the man I see as my father would still be alive. I will never be able to make up for that, “ She added, hot tears building in her eyes that she stubbornly fought off, “ Kodlak wanted to be cured. He needs a cure so that he can go to Sovngarde where he belongs. I am going to put a stop to the World Eater so that this world can continue on and that cure can be found.”

 

“As for...whatever this place is becoming,” She gestured to the pack and the room with a mixture of disgust and exasperation, “I don’t want any part of it. After the funeral, I am gone.”

 

Claret made to stomp her way back outside, only to stop short when Skjor blocked her path. He motioned with his head back to the others and she growled low in her chest, glaring over her shoulder at the pack that had clustered together like a bunch of uncertain children. Vilkas still looked angry, but there was something else on his features that Claret couldn’t place. He strode over to her, gaze sad and full of resignation. The big alpha glared at her for one long moment before dropping to a knee at her feet. He tilted his head to one side, exposing his neck to her in a gesture that was all wolf. Claret’s pupils blew out wide as her wolf surged forward. A strangely powerful feeling sang in her insides over the shock at the unmistakably submissive gesture from Vilkas of all people. 

 

“You have been named by Kodlak as his successor, Harbinger. But more than that, you are alpha, even to me,” He admitted, before looking up at her through his dark lashes. She swallowed hard, unable to take her eyes from that pale, bare expanse of skin. She wanted to bite him there, she realized. Her instincts demanded it, clamored for it. The rest of the pack mimicked him, even Aela, crawling forward with more grace than any mortal should ever have. They flowed around her legs, crowding close to one another and basking in the energy of the pack building in the air. She was trying very hard not to drown in her instincts. Farkas grinned boyishly up at her from next to Vilkas, looking so damn pleased and proud of himself.  He swept aside the thick fall of his hair and mirrored his twin. This wasn’t fair at all. She huffed and bent down over Vilkas’ neck, scenting his nervous unease blended with an oddly tempting colone of excitement and desire. 

 

He wanted her to bite him too. She exhaled against his skin and he shivered, letting out a very soft whine and dipping his head further, trying to encourage her. But what would happen if she gave in? What would that make her? Was this what she wanted? Was he? Cicero. 

Child. We need you. 

 

The soft, loving voice of the dead woman had her freezing in place. The white wolf pressed against her, wanting out, urging her to take the pack, to take the powerful male as hers. But the woman’s voice echoing in her mind with the soft scents of nightshade was just as compelling. Her heart wrenched painfully. That empty hole, that painful tugging on her insides moved to the front of her mind. Her wolf was snarling inside at her, the scent of power on the air stifling. They could all be so very powerful together. And she knew that is what they were asking of her. A powerful alpha to lead and guide a powerful pack. She drank down the scents of her family, the cloying, heady mixture of wolf and musk and the wilds all stirred together by that electrical charge. It tugged at things low in her gut and the alpha side of her was taking over with each and every breath. The blood in her veins rushed in her ears over the drumming of her heart. 

 

“I am sorry,” She murmured against Vilkas’ neck and the big warrior let out a needy sound that she had only dreamt of when she was a silly, love struck teen. Her fingers moved to cradle his face gently, nails raking through his hair and pulling a happy sound from him. She’d never touched him like this before. Usually their physical contact was reserved to the training yard and violent. He leaned into her touch as though he craved it. And suddenly it all made sense. The teasing, the pranks, the constant excuses to get her riled up. The bastard was acting like a little boy with a crush. She hadn’t seen any of it. Instead, she’d only seen a man that she looked up to, even loved, constantly rejecting everything that she did and looking down on her. Cicero’s golden eyes and playful smile danced in her mind and Claret pressed a soft kiss to Vilkas’ nape. 

 

“Claret,” Her name was a needy whisper that had her wolf howling at her to mark him. 

 

“I can’t,” She felt herself say. The room went still. She stood and picked her way out of the crowd and out into the light. 

 

The Bannered Mare was blessedly devoid of people that evening. Sure there were a few travelers, a couple regulars by the bar, but it was relatively calm and quiet save for the gentle strumming of a lute and the typical clattering from the kitchens. Claret had rented the loft room and closed the door after ordering dinner and enough alcohol to get her well and truly sloshed. She sat on the little balcony that overlooked the main room, high above the prying eyes below. Her armor abandoned, she lounged in a short, loose tunic and a pair of breeches that she’d cut far too short so that nearly the full expanse of her long legs were exposed. Barefoot and uncaring of modesty or socially accepted behavior for young women, she propped her legs up on the railing and swallowed another mouthful of Blackbriar reserve. Several bottles of various types littered the floor around her, some empty, others fresh and she picked restlessly at the tray of cheese and fruit on the table beside her. 

 

She’d been up there for hours, stewing in her misery. The werewolf could not believe herself. She had blatantly thrown their offer of leadership back in their faces and left. Again. It was childish and felt a bit petty. But she respected Kodlak too much to just let things go and fall to Hircine so completely. They were all so ready to be a pack, to follow her lead. But was it Claret that they wanted or the Dragonborn? She knew that it was foolish to brood over it. She was the dragonborn before she was a werewolf technically and she could never be anything but a dragon. The white haired woman knew that had things been different, had she not met Cicero that she would have taken the mantle of Alpha in a heartbeat. 

 

“You gunna share any of that?” The gruff growl of Farkas’ baritone had her jolting and blinking up at him owlishly. She had been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn’t smelt him or heard him at all and she berated herself for it. With a wry smirk, she tossed an unopened bottle of mead at him and the big man flopped down in the chair next to her with a sigh. They sat in an uncomfortable stillness while the black wolf downed the bottle in a few slow, long, gulps. 

 

“If you came to bring me back, it isn’t going to happen,” Claret said stiffly, feeling the warm effects of the drink. Farkas chuckled and eyed her appreciatively from the corner of his eye. 

 

“Nah. Easier to hoard all of your attention without the competition of the others,” He joked and she snorted, scrunching her face up at him. 

 

“And why pray tell, would you want my attention, of all things? I just walked away from our family and probably insulted Vilkas so much that he’s never going to want to see me again,” The woman asked with a sad sigh, popping a grape into her mouth. The sweet tang exploded across her tongue and she let out a happy sound, stretching languidly in her seat. 

 

“I may be slow, but I’m not stupid,” Farkas chuckled and suddenly the air seemed a bit thicker than before between them. There was a difference in how he looked at her, his eyes taking a slow walk over the golden planes of her lithe, muscled frame in a way that made gooseflesh skitter along her arms. She swallowed the sudden girlish flutter in her stomach. Was he flirting with her? Her eyes flitted up to his rugged face and those silver eyes that heated with lust. Yep. Definitely flirting. “Anyone with half a brain would want your attention, Claret.”

 

Her tongue felt awfully thick in her mouth, as she choked on words. But this was Farkas! He laughed at the deep blush on her cheeks , a sound that was all masculine pride. 

 

“Glad to see that I can make you squirm like that, even if I am still like a sibling in your eyes,” He hummed before snagging another bottle. Claret averted her gaze and shifted a little uncomfortably. They had been...intimate a long time ago. Of course, it had been all three of them, sometimes Aela. Pups learning about their bodies, venting pent up hormones and bonding. Memories of being pressed between the twins had her flushing even more. They had all three been inexperienced and clumsy, both boys rougher than was comfortable and Claret too shy to do more than cling to them. Farkas chuckled again, knowing exactly what she was thinking about and the tips of her ears turned scarlet. His face sobered then, eyes sad. 

 

“I miss those days,” He confessed looking forlorn and needy and oh so far away despite sitting a foot from her, “ Vilkas misses it too.”

 

Claret blinked over at him in disbelief. 

 

“No lie. He talks about you to me constantly. We were young and stupid. Don’t think any of us realized what we had there,” The dark haired nord mused and Claret nodded in agreement. 

 

“If only,” She murmured wistfully. They were a mess together, but they could have been a wonderful one. Claret had always been worried about hurting one of them, making them share. Now she realized how stupid a thought that really was. The twins were completely comfortable with one another, to the point that she knew for a fact that they held a much more than brotherly relationship going on. The fact that they had included her at all in their affections had flattered her immensely. 

 

“That assassin that showed up. You should know that Vilkas only messed around with her because he thought that maybe he could forget about you. He was so convinced that you weren’t ever going to come back, that we’d lost you,” Farkas remarked and Claret whirled to look at him, brows high. 

 

“But not you?” She asked softly as the big man turned to grin at her. 

 

“Never. You are the only other person I really want in my life, honestly. Always have been. I’m not interested in getting close to anyone else. You and Vilkas are all that I need. And if that isn’t right for you anymore, then that is fine too,” Farkas explained casually and it took great effort on her part to not spit her mead across the room. She shakily sat the bottle down and curled in the chair, suddenly feeling so small next to the giant of a nord that had taken to casually running his fingers through her hair. Farkas was so easy to be around. Laid back, calm, accepting, no matter what. It was odd to be both comforted by his presence and also hyper aware of him all at once. This was the first time that Farkas had ever openly flirted or pressed any sort of buttons at all in that regard. 

 

“Is Vilkas alright?” She asked meekly and the long haired man grunted softly. 

 

“He will be. He needed a wake up call. Besides, later tonight should be fun,” Farkas half growled and Claret felt heat crash through her as the thought of the twins together rolled through her head in a nude, sweaty, glorious mess, “ Would be more fun if you helped.”

 

“I don’t think I can do that anymore,” She said quietly and he nodded goodnaturedly. 

 

“Can I at least know his name?” The man asked, eyes amused, despite the sting of disappointment. It had been worth a shot. Claret sighed softly and a bittersweet smile curled her lips.

 

“How do you know it isn’t a woman?” She teased and Farkas snorted softly. 

 

“Bah, you and I both know the only woman you’ve ever wanted to bed was Aela,” He replied knowingly and she scoffed.

 

“Cicero. His name is Cicero,” She murmured and Farkas furrowed his brows together. 

 

“He hurt you,” The big man growled protectively and she smiled at him. Farkas was too sweet for his own good under that gruff burliness. 

 

“No. I...hurt him,” Claret admitted and so she told him. Well, she left out a few things like the coffin, the voice, Cicero being somewhat murderous and crazy.  She told him about traveling with the man, how aggravating the redhead could be and yet at the same time, affectionate, enthusiastic, and so very kind. And then she told him about Morthal and the vampires and the big man stiffened next to her. Thick, sloppy tears egged on by the alcohol rolled down her face and Farkas pulled the small woman into his lap, holding her close. She was very glad that he’d taken off his armor before coming to find her. She wept into his chest, fingers twined in his long hair and he held her tightly, letting her cry it out and rubbing her back in slow circles. 

 

“It wasn’t your fault,” He said after her sobs had trickled off into breathy hiccups. “Both of you did what you had to.”

 

“He wouldn’t have been there at all if I hadn’t agreed to help,” She muttered into Farkas’ tunic, damp from her tears.  

 

“Could have, should have, wouldn’t have, that doesn’t matter. It did happen. No changing it. And he still tried to keep you safe, still got you out despite that. You left because you want to be better for him. Should you have told him? Yeah, but there isn’t any point in looking back on it,” He chided, leaning back in his chair as she curled against his chest. She blinked up at him through drenched lashes, face splotchy and eyes red. 

 

“I ran away again,” She stated and he tapped her nose with a big finger, making her scrunch it unhappily at him. 

 

“And you’ll go back to him,” He replied confidently, earning a wide eyed look from her. 

 

“He’s a vampire,” Claret retorted, and Farkas rolled his eyes.

 

“Yeah and you are a werewolf,” He pointed out with a laugh.

 

“Being occasionally furry is very different from constantly dead, Far,” She huffed at him and his laughter grew. 

 

“So what?” He shrugged and she gaped at him. So what? WHat did he mean so what? Was he seriously suggesting that she ignore the fact that Cicero was a blood sucking monster? “Why does it matter? You want him. Go get him.”

 

“Just like that?” She asked in disbelief and he nodded.

 

“Just like that,” He confirmed with a wink. She stared at Farkas as though she hadn’t seen him before. The big man was a calm, centered, unwavering rock and he always had been. He had become even more so in the past few years it seemed and underneath the calm, protective easy going demeanor, she could sense the alpha in him slinking under the surface. His self control was unreal. She stared up at him with wide, disbelieving eyes and he smiled a fanged smile down at her and let that alpha creep forward just a little. The energy knocked the breath from her lungs. He was ridiculously strong, stronger than Vilkas and it was stunning to feel. She nearly swallowed her tongue. Why in Tamriel was he hiding it?! 

 

Her own wolf responded to the invisible pull, her energy rubbing along his in an affectionate, sensual caress that had him rumbling out a low groan. This could have been hers. They both could have been. The thought was sorely tempting and his chuckle rumbled through his chest. 

 

“You, little wolf, are far sneakier than I could ever be,” She commented and he laughed fully then, hugging her tight.  It made her wonder if Vilkas knew. Naaah. Farkas stood with her in his arms and she yelped, clinging to his neck. “W-what are you doing?!”

 

“Taking you home, little sister,” He replied and she balked. “Enough. You are still a Companion, still one of us, even if you don’t want to take the pack. You are and always will be my sister, regardless of what everyone else thinks.” 

 

His words had her tearing up all over again and he snagged her pack and cloak from the floor near the bed, making sure nothing was left behind. And with the grumpy woman sulking in his arms, he brought her back to Jorrvaskr.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what do you all think? Should I include a little scene between the twins and Claret? Should I just have a little thing between the boys themselves? Both? Does that sort of thing intrest you at all? x3 And how do you feel about sneaky Farkas? I love the twins sooooo much and they were a lot of fun to write. I see Vilkas being the quick thinker, the problem solver, and generally the more likely to take charge of a situation and able to handle just about anything that you throw at him with grace. That is, until you toss emotions into the mix. He seems easy to anger and rile up when it comes to the Dragonborn and a bit of a prude. Farkas on the other hand is laid back, cool as a cucumber, and happy to go with whatever happens. He seems very put together as far as emotions go and doesn't seem the type to stress over anything. Except spiders. xD I have this little head canon that he lets Vilkas lead the way because he is too lazy and is happy to just keep Vilkas grounded. ^u^


	11. A wear wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guess what is finally happening. ;]

Eleven

 

Claret woke to the sound of a door opening and she stiffened. She was curled against Farkas as he snored softly, his barrel chest pressed tight to her back. He was warm and solid, his arms wound about her tiny frame as though she were a child’s doll. Her breathing was soft and even, as quiet as she could make it while straining with her ears. The floor was stone, and hid most sounds. Her fingers curled tightly around a dagger from the sheath she wore at her thigh. She could feel the air currents, the shifting of cloth and then she moved. Farkas sputtered in surprise under her, blinking owlishly up at the woman that held her weapon to the throat of the intruder with a snarl in her throat. 

 

“Easy, Claret, I know you are mad at me but this is a bit extreme, don’t you think?” Vilkas spoke softly with an expression that belonged on a kid with their hand caught in the cookie jaw. She sheathed the dagger, tired eyes wary and curious.

 

“Vilkas?” Farkas asked from below them with a yawn. He smiled up at his brother with an adoration what was sickeningly cute and the shorter haired twin gave a tight lipped smile. He shifted uncomfortably under Claret’s stare, rubbing the back of his neck and looking anywhere but at the intense female protectively hovering over Farkas. Warmth flooded his insides at the thought. She may have rejected the pack, but she would still defend his brother and he was thankful for it. He had been angry, jealous even, when Farkas brought her back late in the evening. His twin had carried her boldly though the hall and down to his room without a word. Neither one had emerged since and Vilkas could tell from the scent that they hadn’t done anything other than fall asleep together. 

 

She flopped down into a sitting position beside Farkas, watching Vilkas with a blank stare that was more than a little unnerving. After a long, pregnant silence, she held out her hand to the newcomer. The relief on his face had her smiling softly and stripping off his shirt, the barefoot man clambered over his brother  to her other side. Claret laid down on her back and both twins snuggled into her sides, each resting their heads on her chest. Vilkas wound his arms about her middle and inhaled her scent deeply as Farkas shifted to throw an arm over them both and twine their legs together in a comfortable tangle. With a soft hum, Claret settled into the furs, her fingers carding through their hair in long, soothing strokes.  It was just like when they were three little kids, thrust into the hard life of a Companion. They shared a bed, curling up with each other for comfort each night. Eventually, Vilkas had pulled away from the habit, making excuses. In reality, he had been a bit afraid of the emotions he felt for both his brother and the white haired runt. 

 

Things would very likely never be completely as they once were between them. But, that was alright. This was enough. The trio awoke in a confusion of limbs and hair. There was still a palpable tension in the hall when Claret joined them in a slow procession that went to the Temple of Arkay where the priests had been carefully preparing Kodlak’s body. The Companions all wore their full armor, faces solemn and silent as the Circle took up each corner of the pallet that held the battle dressed body of Kodlak. Claret didn’t bother hiding her own tears as she took his cold hand in one of hers, walking in between Farkas and Vilkas beside the pallet. Many of the townsfolk were drawn out into the misty morning air by the sight of the procession. Kodlak was a highly regarded, revered warrior and the people of Whiterun placed flowers on his lifeless form as they passed. 

 

The funeral was private, held at the skyforge and beautiful. They gave him to the fire and the sky like all of the Companions before him. Aela was still refusing to speak to Claret and the white haired woman was fine with that. If anything, the tension with the pack had grown tenfold. This wasn’t a surprise. She and the twins, however, had settled into an easy sort of acceptance. Both of them stuck close to her, finding excuses to show affection. Claret took it all in stride. Her brothers were the only acceptance that she needed. After a celebration feast had begun i the main hall, Claret moved to the front of the room and gained the attention of them all. 

 

“Kodlak made me your Harbinger. I know many of you disagree and I do not fault you for that. I will be leaving in the morning at first light to continue my own mission. All hostilities toward the Silver Hand are to be stopped,” She stated firmly. Protests rang out in the hall and Claret let out a rather impressive snarl  that had all of them stilling. “Do not forget who the big bad wolf in this room is. I may not want to lead the pack, but my authority as Harbinger gives me the power to choose the path that the Companions will take. You want to play wolf pack, be my guest. But go against this one order and I will end you myself. Leave the Silver Hand be. Kodlak wouldn’t want to lose anyone else to them and I respect his wishes.”

 

Skjor and Aela looked moderately pissed, as well as a few others, but Vilkas and Farkas came to stand on either side of Claret like imposing watchdogs and the group complied. 

 

“ After I leave tomorrow morning,, Vilkas will take up the mantle of Harbinger,” She added finally before glancing over at Vilkas. He looked surprised, expression flickering from confusion to denial and back. “I wish to speak with the circle before I prepare for my journey.”

 

She strode down into the depths of the hall, moving with purpose. Claret had made up her mind during the funeral about what her next course of action would be and she seated herself in Kodlak’s meeting room, sitting stiffly in his old chair. The four other members of the circle gathered inside and she motioned for Farkas to close the door. Aela looked ready to jump into an argument but Claret cut her off by tossing a thick book on the desk. 

 

“Kodlak found a cure,” She stated and they all looked down at the book as though it would bite them. 

 

“Truly? How?”Vilkas asked softly, wide eyed.

 

“Ever hear of the Glenmoril Witches?” Claret asked and they shook their heads thoughtfully. “They were the ones that began the curse. They linked us to Hircine. I kill them, take their heads, I can undo it.”

 

“And what if we don’t wish to be cured?” Aela asked, eyes narrowed to slits. 

 

“Then don’t be cured,” Claret shrugged. “If I gain the ability to reverse it, I can grant Kodlak’s dying wish. The Companions wish to keep their beast, fine. But any that wish to be cured can contact me and we will remove it.”

 

Aela nodded with a sigh, giving the other female a thoughtful look. 

 

“I have a job for you four. I need Wuuthrad to be restored. The silver hand has most of the shards save for the few we have gathers. Give me all of the information that you have about the Hand, their movements, their hideouts, anything that you have,” Claret continued and the smile on Skjor’s face was brighter than the sun. 

 

“That hardly seems fair. You prevent us from hunting them, and yet you get to go out and have all of the fun,” He teased and Claret’s face shifted then. A slow, twisted smile curled her lips and her eyes went as dead and lifeless as a dolls. Vilkas swallowed hard as he looked at her. This was the dragon in her that he was seeing. She looked deadly, ancient, and terrifying. The air about her charged with that cold, calculating stillness and it made her nearly unrecognizable. 

 

“I am going to kill every last one of them. Kodlak would not approve. I can’t involve the Companions in this. I plan to stage it so that the connection between the Companions and werewolves is removed. They know what we are. It is only a matter of time before they go to the Vigil and the Vigil is a much more organized, formidable foe,” Claret’s voice said from that almost alien face. She sounded almost eager at the prospect of butchering the werewolf hunters and it had more than one of them shivering, “ They are trying to provoke a response, weaken us into making a mistake. I will not allow it. I will send you reports whenever I am able.”

 

“You don’t need to step down as Harbinger, Claret, Kodlak wouldn’t want that,” Vilkas finally protested and she sighed. 

 

“I know. But what I am about to do is not worthy of the name Companion,” She confessed and they all fidgeted, “ I am going to be living up to my name and apparently my religion. I won’t drag my family down with me. All that I ask is that you take care of them. Guide them as Kodlak would have. And if you need my help for anything, just send word. I will try my best to let you know my rough whereabouts.”

 

They spoke together well into the evening, Aela and Skjorr sharing the information that they had on the hunters willingly, even offering to help. Claret didn’t want any of them seen or associated with the murders. Yes. Murders. That was exactly what she was going to do. It should have bothered her, scared her, but all that she could hear in her mind were Cicero’s cheerful words of encouragement over the screams of the vampire they had tortured. She would make each and every one of them suffer. They would feel fear before they died and fell into the void. Farkas and Vilkas were reluctant to go with this plan, but what could they do? She was officially leaving the Companions. To inform the authorities would expose the pack, to try and stop her would end in bloodshed. They were stuck. 

 

That night, Claret slept in Kodlak’s bed fitfully, waking over and over like she did every night. And then she was gone without a word before the sun was up. 

  
  


She hunted. The first group was hard. They had entrenched themselves up on some mountain, burrowed down into an abandoned mine. They were numerous, and had most of the hillside watched with a surprising amount of care. Claret stripped herself of her armor down to her underthings and set to work. She strapped multiple daggers to her thighs and calves, slipped the ebony broadsword over her back, and a pair of long knives that were the length of her forearms into a loose belt about her hips. Aqua eyes scanned the trees for any movement from where she crouched low in the leaves and dirt. The still hot body of a stag lay before her, cleanly and efficiently killed mere moments before. She knew the legends just as well as any werewolf. Hircine, the lord of the hunt often appeared to mortals in the form of a man with the head of a stag, with wolves at his side. 

 

The white haired woman pried free the antlers, hacking them from the skull and tying them tightly into a long strip of fur. Tightly, she tied them down onto her head, grateful that she had found a young one with only a foot tall rack. Anything more would have been far too cumbersome. The horns were a bit painful to wear but they would work for her purpose. The silver hand were superstitious, fearful people. She could tell that from how they jumped at shadows. They were waiting for retaliation from the companions. She dipped her hands in the warm blood of the deer, painting lines in nonsensical patterns that were jagged and wicked across her bared skin. A sense of inspiration hit her as she bemoaned the future work of cleaning the red from her white hair later. Her eyes fell to the pendant about her neck. Dipping her whole hand in the blood, she closed her eyes and pressed the palm carefully over her face.

 

The thick, cloying wetness tracked down her cheeks in small rivers as the stark red handprint settled onto her face. She wiped her hands on the stag’s pelt, sad at its loss, but content that the predators nearby would eat well on it and the creature would not go to waste. The werewolf drew the long knives and crept through the tangled mess of trees , trying her best not to tangle herself on the branches. She felt silly with the antlers, like some sort of forsworn savage woman. It was more than a little ridiculous. But she know that in order to cover the tracks of the Companions and erase their involvement, she had to make them think that she was something supernatural, a messenger of Hircine or worse, come to take vengeance upon the werewolf hunters. She would make them truly afraid. The thought alone had her pushing aside her doubts. 

 

Claret took the first man quickly, slicing cleanly across his throat and dropping him silently into the leaves of the oncoming darkness. She was painfully outnumbered, but she had the advantage of nightfall. The wolf and dragon both were better in the dark than any human and she was going to use everything in her arsenal to destroy them. She needed to put on a show though, and that was going to be dangerous. Her mind raced. 

 

People will listen to their fears first. A slow grin rolled over her lips and she turned her eyes to the sky that was mostly clouded over, obscuring the moons. A thick fog had settled below the higher hills, blanketing the trees in an eerie murk. She howled, drawing the wolf out from inside of her chest. It was a haunting and loud sound, entirely animal and split the night like a dagger. It was a call to hunt, a warning to the world, and she knew that there were few things that people feared in the night more than the closeby call of a wolf. A chorus of answering howls echoed back to her from a few miles off and she grinned dangerously and not for the first time, thanked a certain red haired monster. 

 

Hushed frantic whispers, hurried footfalls, the fearful fluttering of hearts filled her ears and she cut the heart from the man she had killed with a clinical precision from underneath the ribs.Lost to her task, Claret carelessly bit into the soft muscle, her eyes taking on that otherworldly glow that marked the wolf and she fell back into the trees to wait. The taste was all copper and meat, something that she had long since grown accustomed to. A year or so ago she would have been appalled by her behavior.  A year or so ago, she might had cared that these people probably had lives, families, a future. Now, the only thing that she could feel was the still anticipation of a hunter waiting for prey to spook, to spring her trap. 

 

Two figures in the mantle of the silver hand cautiously approached the body, torches and weapons in hand. She could smell the stench of their fear and her skin shivered with a heightened sort of giddiness. 

 

“It was here, oh god, Emil. Did you see it? Is it one of them?” One hushed, panicked whisper asked and the other figure crouched to examine the body, eyes straining against the black beyond the torches. Claret threw a poison laced dagger across the short distance with a frightful accuracy and it hit with a dull thud in the back of the man still standing. Before he could gasp out she was there, kicking the crouched man hard enough in the face to send him sprawling into the dirt beside the corpse. She brought a knife down in a swinging arch that sliced through the reeling man’s throat with ease before turning to the twitching body of his companion. The second man was a bosmer, clearly more of a scout and the paralysis poison has him half choking into the dirt. Claret yanked the blade free and toed him over onto his back. His whole body went rigid as wide, white filled eyes stared up at the image she presented in the dim torchlight that had clattered to the forest floor near them. 

 

He struggled to scream, to move. She looked like something from nightmares, feral, dangerous, and painted in drying blood, her long unbound hair framing her in a halo of orange from the firelight. She stood over him, glowing eyes watching him with all of the distaste in the world. 

 

“Hircine sends his regards,” She murmured on a growl. His screams tore through the darkness as sharply as her blades tore his flesh. For hours she stalked the Hand, taking them with carefully calculated strikes and dragging them into the darkness to pull agony from their lips. It was all an act, a play. She felt that dark something in her stretch and purr like a languid cat. That side of her that delighted in the look of fear on a person’s face just before she struck, that little voice that pointed out weaknesses; it all but rolled in the terror and death that infused the air. She killed and killed and by the time she had entered the depths of the mine, the scarce few of the hand left alive had holed themselves up, silver weapons glittering in the crackling firelight. Claret stepped into the open, the antlers and blood of her victims eliciting panicked sounds from the three cultists. A flash of silver from the corner of her eyes had a word of power rushing from her lips in a whisper. Her body grew insubstantial, the silver blade wisping through her suddenly ghostly figure ineffectively and causing the attacker to stumble. 

 

“W-what are you? What do you want!?” One mortal cried out and she turned unfeeling, hard eyes to them. 

 

“I am the Huntress. And I want your hearts,” She stated with all of the malice that she could portray. She brought the Pale blade around in a swing that stuck in her attacker’s ribs the moment that the shout wore off, the metal snicking against bone in an unsettling rasp that jarred her sore arms. His screams bounced around the small space loudly and with a show of force, Claret shoved her arm up through the soft space beneath the man’s sternum, nails tearing through flesh to grasp at the beating heart in his chest between his lungs. She grunted and yanked, pulling and it came free with a gross sound. He was dead before he hit the floor and the screams of a woman and stench of piss reached her too sensitive nose. 

 

They didn’t even fight, just cowered against the dirt like little worms. She killed the woman quickly just to rid herself of the high pitched shrieks. The last of the hand was a Khajit man and he had been reduced to a trembling mess of fur and horror. She cupped his tear matted cheeks almost gently and gave him a smile that was all cruelty. 

 

“I want you to live. I want you to go and tell your brethren that I am coming for them very soon. I know where they are. I know what they fear. And Hircine will have them before the next full moon,” She cooed to him with a giggle. With what remained of her strength, she slammed him back into the stone wall. The back of his head made a dull thump and he slumped bonelessly to the floor, unconscious. 

 

Claret shook violently, body chilled from the cold air and the exertion of the evening. She took what things of value she could find in the main camp including documents that showed locations of other camps and correspondence with various contacts. Just looking at them all made her exhausted. But she could not linger. She moved back down the mountain two long miles to the secluded cavern she had found two days ago. Empress let out a started whinny at her arrival and honestly, she really couldn’t blame the horse at all. Claret slipped off the antlers and the creature snorted in reprimand at her. 

 

“Sorry girl,” She mumbled tiredly. Every inch of her ached and she was completely spent from the long night. She stripped of her weapons and meager coverings and waded into the shallow pool that rested in the back of the cave. The water was naturally warm, fed from one of the many hot springs in the area and she scrubbed herself until her body was clean and raw, the flaking blood turning the pool a rusty hue. When she was satisfied, she rechecked the traps she’d set at the entrance, ensuring that the cave was well hidden by brush. The last thing she wanted was another fight. The area had been relatively clear of predators because of not only her own presence but the activity of the cult. Now, she knew they would be concentrated on the slew of bodies she’d left up the hill. 

 She slept like the dead, curled in her thick furs and didn’t wake until night was falling again. It was the most she’d managed to sleep in a very long time and it only made her body feel more tired. Claret felt like she was running on fumes. She and Empress rested in their little sanctuary for another week. It was well hidden and comfortable, spacious enough to easily fit her tent, campfire, and mount with no trouble at all. When she had felt relatively recovered enough and had made her next plans, they moved on.

 

For months, she continued like this. Hunting, killing, and falling fully into the role she had chosen. The silver hand dwindled, many disbanding under the threat of certain death by this aspect of Hircine. Claret couldn’t help but be amused by the countless rumors that swirled around about her. Bride of Hircine, the She-Wolf, and the White Huntress were only a few titles they’d given the horned woman that stalked the darkness to take their lives. She became quite proficient at murder. She’d taken to testing her victims, learning the best ways to make a person scream. The hand was all but destroyed, all of their leaders slain, their hideouts purged, and the stragglers scattered to the wind. Claret had grown colder in those long months. She’d retreated into herself, focusing on the work and not on the part of her that died a little each time she took a life. More and more of her began to relish the feel of death and she really couldn’t recall when that had begun. 

 

A part of her deep down knew that she’d always enjoyed it, craved it. Death seemed an integral part of who she was, even if she’d valiantly tried to deny it. She had accepted it; embraced this savage, bloodlust commanded monster that sighed in contentment each time a victim drew a final breath under her hands. And yet at the same time, she hadn’t changed at all. She still enjoyed talking with others, still liked helping people when she could, even when it resulted in her own pain. She still loved simple things and found beauty in life wherever she went. Her monster was simply closer to the surface now and she was strangely okay with that. 

 

The white haired woman frowned down at the letter she held in her fingers as she settled back into the comfortable chair she’d taken up, the warmth of the hearth and stew she’d devoured lulling her into a content relaxation, despite her unease at the contents of the small piece of paper she held. 

 

‘ The contract has been accepted. Our Sister will be joining you shortly to complete it. The Companions are dangerous however and our Sister will require your full support to ensure her success and safety. We will also require a much higher payment for the risks she will be taking in this endeavor.’

 

A small black hand was the only signature. She knew that marking well enough to know exactly who it belonged to, though she’d heard nothing but vague rumors and whispers about them over the past several years. The Dark Brotherhood. She had suspected that the Hand had hired an assassin rather than one of their own to infiltrate the Companions. However, the reality that it had been the Dark Brotherhood had odd feelings stirring in her. She had always held a healthy fear of the brotherhood, like most people. True they were an all but forgotten order, myths that had once killed an emperor and held the whole of Tamriel in their palm. These days they were a ghost tale to frighten bad little boys and girls with. 

 

There was a different sort of significance for Claret, however. For entire life, she had been a casual follower of SIthis and the Dark Brotherhood was basically the equivalent of the Sithis Priesthood. They were a devout group of followers, called the children of the Void and served him directly. They were the hand of death. She was torn. A part of her wanted to hunt them down for their involvement in Kodlak’s death. The rest of her knew that it had just been business and that the loss of their agent had been more justice than she could hope to obtain. It was done. She sighed softly and tossed the letter into the fire to watch it blacken and curl into nothing. 

 

Claret rose to her feet. She needed to go shopping for supplies for her return trip to Whiterun. Her next plan was to return Wuuthrad to the Companions and finally put Kodlak to rest. Windhelm was blissfully quiet in the early afternoon, and she wandered toward the gray quarter to begin her shopping excursion. It was cheaper to start there and work her way up to the overpriced stalls in the main market. 

 

“So it’s true then? Aventus Aretino is trying to summon the dark brotherhood?” A child asked and froze Claret in her tracks. She didn’t look, but all of her senses were trained on the small boy and the dark elf that stood near the darkened house that apparently belonged to the Aretino boy. Every hair rose on end. There was a familiar nagging in the back of her mind. A murmur of a mother’s loving voice, the brush of gentle fingers along her scalp, the memory of nightshade and deathbells. The duo moved on and before she could stop to think, to consider her actions, Claret was inside of the house. She couldn’t have stopped the following events and murder of Grelod the Kind if she’d tried.

 

Claret had been a Riften brat herself back in the day. In fact, she vaguely recalled Grelod being a terrible bitch of a crone, even back then. Claret had been lucky enough to escape into the hands of the thieves guild rather than the Honorhall Orphanage that was more like it’s own private layer of Oblivion than anything else. Helping out Aventus had been an instinctive, welcome pleasure. 

 

A week or so later, she’d returned to Whiterun, the blood of witches added to the countless werewolf hunters and the wrapped up fragments of an ancient axe in her hands. Vilkas and the others reacted oddly to her. Clearly they knew what she had done and while there was a new level of respect from them all, there was also this barrier that she knew she wasn’t imagining. She had crossed some invisible line.

 

“You staying with us tonight, Sister?” Farkas asked her cheerfully. He was the only one that hadn’t really treated her any different. She hesitated. Claret adored Farkas, but one glance at Vilkas’ tense form had her smiling apologetically.  

 

“No, I shouldn’t. Maybe another time,” She’d replied softly. They made plans to meet at the tomb far to the north and cure Kodlak’s spirit in a month’s time and after some awkward goodbyes, she headed to the inn. Claret didn’t remember falling asleep and when she awoke it was to a headache and unfamiliar surroundings. 

 

“Ahh, awake at last,” The purred drawl of a woman greeted Claret’s ears and silently, the werewolf turned her angry stare upon a masked figure that lounged atop a bookshelf in the corner of the room. The woman was shapely and dressed head to toe in form fitting black and red leather. If her appearance screamed “assassin” any louder, Claret would have been deaf. The white haired woman said nothing, only stared. Her kidnapper smiled behind the cowl, ice blue eyes crinkling in mirth. 

 

“For the moment, you are safe, dry, and very alive. But you see, you and I have some unfinished business to attend to for that to remain so. That little Aretino boy was looking for the Dark Brotherhood; for me and my family to give us a kill. A kill, which you stole,” The stranger said with that seductive, breathy tone that Claret wasn’t sure she liked. The white haired woman merely waited. What could she say? She wasn’t going to apologize. And she was a little afraid that if she opened her mouth to speak that something angry and antagonistic would fall from it. She did NOT like being drugged and carted off to who knew where.  Granted, she couldn’t really think of anyone who did. “There are three guests behind you. One of them has been marked for assassination. Make your choice, make your kill.”

 

Part of her wanted to yank the woman down from her little seat and paint the walls with her insides for having the nerve to demand anything from Claret. The white haired woman glanced back over her shoulder at the three bound people curiously. Her fingers curled around her long knives. Nothing from her person appeared to be missing, so at least there was that small consolation. Claret didn’t bother asking them questions. She didn’t care about their stories. They were all going to die whether she killed them or not. Her cuts were precise and made to hurt, practiced slices that drew screams from each one of them. All three corpses were still twitching and warm when she wiped her knives clear of blood and turned back to the assassin. 

 

“Aren’t we the overachiever?” The woman chuckled and dropped down the floor to greet Claret properly. “What do you say we take our relationship to the next level?”

  
That motherly voice in the back of her head hummed in satisfaction. What was the worst that could happen?


	12. Breathless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claret ties up lose ends with the pack, settles into her new family, and someone makes a reappearance. x3

Twelve

The answer to that question was everything. Astrid, as she introduced herself, had dragged Claret into the last place in Tamriel that Claret ever wanted to be in again. Fucking, Morthal. Even after all of the death and destruction she had seen and inflicted over the past few months, the halfling still felt the painful agony of that night like a terrible pair of claws digging through her heart. Everything about it had her thinking of Cicero and it took all that she had to not flop uselessly into the muck and weep. The murder of the Silver Hand and her training had taken her mind off of the painful ache in her chest that she had hoped would have dulled over the long time away from the vampire. It had grown worse. 

Astrid, she had learned, was a beautiful, blonde, nymph that looked like something you’d see painted in a Dibellan temple. High cheekbones, mature, pale features, perfect nose and lips and calculating deep blue eyes; Astrid was the very definition of the perfect woman. She made Claret feel small and grubby. Infact, the halfling barely reached Astrid’s shoulders in height and they were practically opposites in every way. The blonde was curvaceous and voluptuous and devoid of scars, with healthy skin and neatly kept hair. Claret looked like something that crawled out of a cave. Her skin was darkly tanned and freckled, still healing scars here and there on her tired body. Her once rounded cheeks had hollowed over time from her waning appetite and deep, dark circles seemed permanently etched under her eyes from constant sleep deprivation. She was hard and lean and ugly, with her unkempt mane trailing past her knees in tangling waves. 

“Will you be traveling home with us, Sister?” The blonde woman asked from beside the pitch black mouth that stood next to a burly man that was already waiting in the saddle of a second horse and Empress. Claret tensed the moment that she inhaled his scent. She was downwind of him, so she wasn’t sure if he could smell her or not. He was a werewolf. She stared. He was familiar! Her eyes rounded slowly and the silver haired man stiffened in the saddle, as if anticipating an attack. Claret dug through her memories for that face and then she fixed her gaze on his long hair, the single braid that hung to the right of his face and it clicked.

“Uncle Arn?” She asked hesitantly and it was his turn to grow wide eyed. He dropped from his mount, bare feet making no sound on the soft turf as he stalked over to Claret. He was huge, easily matching the height of Farkas, which to her, meant that she barely reached halfway up his body in height. Dressed in the same skin tight armor that Astrid wore, the big bearded man would have been intimidating to anyone, especially with that scowl on his face. But Claret wasn’t just anyone.

“Pup?” He asked in sudden recognition as he inhaled her scent. Her eyes lit up in excitement at the big warrior remembering her and he let out a grunt of surprise when she hugged him about the middle, ignoring his rumbling growls. She pulled back a moment later, despite her enjoyment of pissing him off. 

“You two have a history?” Astrid asked with an arched eyebrow and a soft frown. 

“Sort of. When I was a Companion, they brought this runt in as a pup. Only knew her for a year or so before they kicked me out. Little shit never left me alone,” Arnbjorn grumbled unhappily, though she could see the hint of a smile on the corners of his gruff face. 

“Only because it annoyed you,” Claret remarked sardonically and he scoffed. Astrid chuckled and shook her head in disbelief. 

“And now you are family again, it seems. It’s almost like fate,” The blonde added and there was something odd in how she said it that had Claret growing quiet. Arnbjorn had been a big, grumpy, rough man that had scared the hell out of most of the companions, Farkas and Vilkas included. Vilkas had dared her to braid the big man’s hair, expecting her to chicken out. Claret couldn’t help but prove him wrong. She had marched right up to the intimidating warrior, demanded he sit down and let her braid his hair for him without an ounce of fear. He had been so baffled and taken off guard by the tiny girl that he’d compiled. She followed him everywhere after that. He would grouch at her to leave him alone, or tell her all of the terrible things he would do if she didn’t pester someone else and she would just giggle and ignore him. She noted with a grin and a pointed stare that he still braided that one side of his hair and he rolled his eyes at her. 

“Brat.” He growled. 

“Old dog,” She retorted. 

“Children, if you are quite finished?” Astrid laughed. The journey to Falkreath was uneventful and comfortable. Astrid and Arnbjorn were happy to tell Claret about how they met, their life together as husband and wife and all about their family. Claret was reluctant to bring up her own experience, but she did chime in with a few details. She told them about being a wolf, and that she had decided to leave the Companions when she realized that she wasn’t up to their standards. She liked the hunt far too much. That had pleased Arn immensely. He seemed pretty excited about the prospect of having someone to hunt and run with, though Astrid seemed less enthusiastic about it. Four days into their journey, they moved off of the road into the mist covered forest. The earth sloped down into a small pine entrenched valley that sheltered a small pool of black water. A stable stood hidden within the rocks, stone and covered in ivy and pine boughs, it was entirely invisible unless you knew where to look, even right on top of it. Astrid dismounted and the black monster of a horse that she rode snorted softly. 

He stared with big, glowing, red eyes at Claret for a long moment before trotting into the pool of churning darkness and vanished. Daedric? No. She was quite familiar with Daedra and their creatures and this felt different, older, if such a thing were possible. Chills broke out over Claret and she swallowed hard, dismounting her own steed. Sithis. Empress and Arnbjorn’s horse were stabled in the comfortable, dry stalls filled with fresh hay and bedding with a few other mounts. And then she was led into a hidden cave and presented to a sinister looking door that whispered into her very bones. 

“What is the music of life?”

“Silence, my brother,” She whispered back and a sigh of relief left her when the door swung open. Creepy. 

“Welcome home,” It replied and she swallowed nervously. Arnbjorn and Astrid moved past her into the sanctuary. Rain had begun to trickle down through the giant pines and with a deep breath, she stepped inside and sealed her fate. It was a cave; of course. Damp, yet comfortable in temperature, it was dimly lit by flickering embers that waned in braisers here and there. She followed after Astrid, listening to the woman’s footfalls on the worn stone and the clang of the enchanted door at her back closing with such finality. 

What in the hell was she doing? Her insecurities were back tenfold and clinging to her legs like lead weights with each step. She had just left one family, committed foul, unspeakable atrocities that only accented her growing nightmares and here she was, aligning herself with not only a group of murderers, but a group of murderers that were partly responsible for the murder of her adopted father. She knew what they did for a living, their whole purpose. The Dark Brotherhood was a secretive cult to Sithis, the father of death, though no one really knew much more beyond that. They were the boogeymen in the dark, slinking in the shadows, killing with in discrimination. Claret was certain that most of the whispers about the cult were wild falsehoods thrown about by the fearful. The was usually the case with most things, really. 

The hunter in her was on high alert, memorizing the dim decor, the modest furnishings. Get close to Kodlak’s murderers and then kill them all, it said. She agreed. A new realization struck her motionless in the entrance to the main room. Arnbjorn had been how the assassin had gotten into the Companions. There was no doubt in her mind that he had told them everything about the circle, how to earn their favor, who to kiss up to. A bitter rage clawed at her guts. Why hadn’t she realized that? Why hadn’t she connected the dots. He was angry at the companions for rejecting him. He was probably pleased to see them die. It took every last bit of her self control to not tear the white haired man to pieces. Supposedly, the assassins were all business. There was nothing personal in their dealings. Claret knew that this was bullshit. 

She heard their voices clamoring down in the wide open cavern that had been repurposed into a training room and armory, eyes committing the appearance of the place to memory. The wolf in her wound across the insides of her skin in agitation. Their laughter grated on her nerves, pulled on the rage that wanted to spill outward. Had they laughed and told stories of Kodlak’s death like this? She felt like puking. Of course she knew that most of it was a coping mechanism. 

A small child that stood in the center of the group dramatically reenacting some job for the others had Claret’s insides churning. The scent of snakes, of blood and nightshade. Even from the stairs she could smell the vampire. Her face settled into an expressionless mask and she crossed the room to linger not far from the small gathering of murderers. There were less of them than she had expected. Part of her was pleased but the rest was disappointed. They all cackled and swapped stories, looking at ease with one another, despite the morbid air that filled the cavern. The affection in their voices, the way they teased and complimented each other, the warm looks; they brought Claret up short. She blinked when they began to disperse, owlishly watching them casting her curious looks as the went to carry out their day. Arnbjorn dropped a large, heavy hand atop her head and ruffled the long white locks roughly. She glared up at him as he passed with a small frown and he laughed, heading toward the small forge. 

“Greetings, Sister,” Came a deep, breathy voice to her left. Claret tensed and faced a dark green argonian man that had approached her. He looked at her with strangely kind eyes for a paid killer, a wide smile on his reptilian mouth. He was tall and slender, but the form fitting armor showed exactly how fit he was, large tail flicking behind him as he studied the white haired woman. She gave him a small dip of her head in acknowledgement and his eyes crinkled pleasantly. “I am Veezara, a Shadow Scale raised by the Brotherhood. And you?”

She opened her mouth to answer, only to fall silent. What was she supposed to tell him? Dove? Claret? Make up a new name? Her inner torment must have shown on her face because his face turned gentle, a taloned hand clasping her shoulder in a surprisingly friendly manner. There was understanding in his bright eyes.

“It is alright, Sister. Take your time. It must be overwhelming being here for the first time,” He rumbled to her in a tone that had her throat tightening. He was so kind. She nodded with a sigh and Veezara gave her shoulder a sympathetic squeeze before giving her a little space. Claret hated that she instantly liked the soft spoken Argonian. It was very rare that she instantly took a liking to anyone. It usually took her a good long while to get a real feel for someone, but there was something so sincere and calming about the reptile. Part of her attributed it to being technically reptilian herself in a roundabout dragon-esque sort of way. He seemed far too sweet to be a murderer, especially to a newcomer like herself. 

“People call me Dove,” She relented finally, and it honestly wasn’t a lie. She tensed at the sound of footsteps behind her and Astrid chuckled softly. Claret glanced back at her curiously.

“Welcome home. Sister. We are your family now, all of us. There are only a few things to remember about being part of this family. Firstly, take care of your family. Secondly, represent us well on your contracts, and most importantly, my word is law. Other than that, you are free to do whatever you wish. If you get caught, you are responsible for finding your own way out. And of course, you will get a portion of all of your earnings for your kills. Do your jobs efficiently and to the letter and you will receive a bonus of some sort. Any questions?” Astrid explained and the white haired woman shook her head hesitantly. A mixture of anticipation and reluctance swirled in her gut unpleasantly. Astrid gave her a warm, patient smile.

“Come, let’s get you settled in and let you relax. At dinner, you can meet the others and we can talk with Nazir for some work for you. How does that sound?” The blonde added and unable to resist how nice all of it sounded, Claret smiled tentatively. 

“Sounds like a good start to me,” She murmured and went with them up the stairs to a communal bedroom. It reminded her a bit of Jorrvaskr, but was even more open. The beds encircled the convoluted room and Astrid motioned to one of the free ones. Claret was quick to take the one that was pressed into a corner that was a bit more shadowed. She was feeling more than a little vulnerable and the extra security, minimal though it was, eased her mind a little. She settled in, putting up her minimal belongings in a favorable manner and stripping out of the armor that had seen a good deal of wear over the past few years. She lovingly placed it in the chest at the foot of her bed along with her travel supplies. Astrid then moved with her back to the main room with fresh towels and soaps. 

“Come on, bathe with me and I’ll help wash that mane of yours, little bird,” She beckoned and began stripping out of the skin tight armor without a care for prying eyes. Claret hesitated, eyes rolling over the perfect planes of the assassin leader’s body. That insecurity was back all over again and a reassuring smile from the blue eyed woman made her feel stupid. Why did she care about something as petty as her appearance? Because she did and yes it was stupid and foolish and beneath her. But that didn’t make it go away. With a sigh, she pulled the loose tunic over her head and shucked off her leggings, dropping them near Astrid’s belongings. She felt the curious stare of the other woman as she focused on unbraiding her impossibly long hair. 

“Dove, dear, you must eat more, you are wasting away!” Astrid, chided her with a click of her tongue. Dove submerged herself, locks fanning out in the water like a thick cloud of white. Thankfully the water was fairly warm. She and Astrid bathed and lounged near the small waterfall, the white haired woman listening intently as the blonde told her stories of past kills and ran a small brush through Dove’s wet locks. 

“Something is still bothering you, little bird,” Astrid mentioned when they were pruned up and heading for the towels. Claret froze, feeling suddenly very tired. 

“I know that you were hired by the SIlver Hand to kill the head of the Companions,” She just came out and said it. There was no sense in hiding it or hesitating any longer, “ my father.” 

“So it wasn’t coincidence after all. I was pretty concerned when Arnbjorn recognized you for what you are. So tell me, little bird, have you come here to kill us? To seek revenge for your father? ‘Bride of Hircine’?” At Claret’s bewildered expression, Astrid laughed genuinely. Mirth made her gorgeous. “Did you think that I wouldn’t hear about a showy serial killer that bathed in the blood of her victims under the moon? Oh yes, we’ve heard all of the stories. Most would see it as the daedric Prince punishing the murderers of his children, but not us, oh no. We know the mark of our own kind far too well. The antlers were a nice trick.”

“It was a means to an end. I didn’t want it to fall back on the Companions. I killed them so that there wouldn’t be anymore of them to rise against the pack. They were vermin and it pleased me to end them,” Claret answered softly, guarded again. “ I originally followed the rumors of the Dark Brotherhood with the intention of killing all of you.”

There was a stillness in her gaze; a growing truth that she could easily kill each and every one of them and feel absolutely nothing. She had gone a bit numb sometime during her hunting of the hand. 

“Originally?” Astrid prompted, looking a tad bit uncomfortable. Claret sighed, and she tucked away the monster. 

“I believe that my birth mother and father may have had ties to the Brotherhood. That coupled with my own murderer tendencies and the fact that all of you are more..more than I thought you were has altered my plans. Do I think that Arnbjorn is a bastard for giving away our secrets and letting Kodlak die? Yes. And he and I will have that out eventually. But I have no intention of attacking the rest of you. To the rest of you, it was a job and losing your sister and the deaths of the instigators was more than enough to satisfy the pack, “ Claret continued. Her expression turned very serious then, “ If there is a contract on any of the Companions in the future, I would suggest turning it down. I may not be a part of them anymore but they still have my protection. Other than that, I am yours.” 

 

Astrid was quiet for a long moment and Claret could see the wheels turning in the blonde’s head. Considering, debating.

“Cutting out an entire people from our potential hit list is asking quite a bit, especially a group that is as controversial as the companions,” Astrid began after a long moment. The cool air of the cave had coated Claret’s dark skin in goosebumps, her bright eyes taking on a predatory gleam that had the blonde backing away a step. 

“ Let me make myself perfectly clear. I like you and your family. I think I can be of use to you, with your dwindling numbers. But I will kill every last one of you without hesitation if it keeps the pack safe. There are a lot of people to kill in the world. One small organization of warriors is hardly worth the time of the brotherhood. And if a client protests, you can just tell them that you have no interest in losing another family member to them,” Claret replied with a shrug and Astrid sighed. 

“I think it is a good deal,” Came the bell like voice of the child from earlier. The girl was delicate and lovely, large doe eyes and perfect pale skin under an intricate dress of black and red. She glided across the room to wind her small arms around Claret’s waist and it was a painful effort for the werewolf to not fling the vampire away. She still had a bit of a phobia with blood suckers. The small girl looked up at Claret with assessing eyes. “You would have killed all of us right away if you had any intention of getting rid of us. Wouldn’t you, Dove?” 

The werewolf nodded slowly, arms limp at her sides. The cold child smiled then, ancient eyes softening further. The girl was very old. How old, Claret wasn’t sure, but there was no doubt in her mind that the child had placed herself in Claret’s personal space with every intention of killing her should the white haired woman attack Astrid. Claret knew exactly where the real threat in the room was and it certainly wasn’t Astrid. What had the blonde woman done to earn the loyalty of a creature that was impossibly old in comparison to the rest of the group? It wasn’t her business. 

“ I would have ended Astrid and her husband before we returned here if destroying the family were my goal. With the brute strength out of the way and with no leader, the rest of you would have been much easier to slay. I knew the passcode, so none of you would have been aware of any foul play until I was already inside. So yes, the vampiress is correct,” Dove explained, not catching sight of how Astrid’s face paled a few shades. She had made a mistake in being so forward about the code and Claret was letting her know it. If the white werewolf had been anyone else, the family would be dust. 

“Then we are all quite fortunate that I am such a good judge of character, aren’t we?” Astrid recovered with a smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes. Claret wasn’t sure if she were impressed with the other woman’s surety or annoyed by it. 

“It is a deal, Dove,” The nord relented and the tension visibly left Claret. Babbette bounced in place beside her, taking the taller woman’s hands in her own. 

“Come on, Dove, you MUST let me dress you! I have the perfect one in mind!” The vampire giggled at the horrified expression on the werewolf’s face. 

“Dress?” She asked, suddenly wondering if slaughtering them all was still an option. Astrid chuckled as the white haired woman was dragged off by the enthusiastic child. The blue eyed assassin felt the humor drain from her face. There was something about this new sister that both intrigued and terrified the leader of the sanctuary. She was dangerous, that much was obvious. But what had Astrid feeling more on guard was something less tangible, something that prickled the hair on the back of her neck. She would be watching the small newcomer very closely.

Claret had settled into the sanctuary with a startling ease. There were no expectations, other than to follow orders, no questions about her past, no obligation other than fulfilling the contracts she was given to the best of her ability. The first few were a little clumsy, nerves getting in the way mostly. But Claret eased into it. These kills were different from her mad hunt across Skyrim for the Silver Hand, these were impersonal, calculated, and more like playing a game than just hunting. Each contract was different and each one sent a thrill unlike any other whispering through her nerves. It was addicting. And while a part of her was still mortified, the vast majority of her reveled in it. She tried to do better with each target, challenged herself to perform to the letter. 

The family itself, was warming up to her very quickly as well. Babbette especially enjoyed her company, which was surprising in and of itself. What was more surprising was that Claret herself enjoyed being around Babbette as well! Babbette was a vampire and though she was a child, was much faster and stronger than humans could hope to be. But she was a person to Claret and that made all of the difference. She liked things, disliked things, had quirks and habits, was intelligent, and deceptively was endlessly wise. There were moments when Claret felt like Babbette’s older sister, and others where it felt very much like it were the other way around entirely. She was always happy to talk about her life, her abilities, what it was like to be a vampire and Claret was endlessly curious about it. The she wolf was tired of being terrified of vampires. That fear chased her away from Cicero. Babbette in turn, enjoyed hearing about being a wolf. She was fascinated by the idea of the pack, though she had a difficult time grasping the whole of it. Most non-weres did. It was impossible to properly explain to someone that hadn’t experienced the effect. 

The vampire also greatly enjoyed dressing Claret up in her doll like clothing. She was only half a foot shorter than the dark skinned woman and despite her broader shoulders, many of the garments could be adjusted with a few ties. Claret played up her displeasure more for the amusement of the girl than anything else. She did enjoy some of them. But she wouldn’t be telling Babbette that. Gabriella was a lovely dark elf woman with a sense of humor as dark as her skin and it was that sense of humor that had won Claret over. The elf woman had been the first to get a genuine laugh from the white haired halfling since her arrival. They had all been so startled by it that they’d all just stared in surprise at the tanned woman from their places around the dinner table that one evening. She had flushed scarlet and ducked her head behind a curtain of white hair and let out an unsure, “ What?” 

The room had erupted in laughter after that, leaving the poor woman horribly confused. Gabriella had smiled serenely at her and patted the werewolf on the head.

“You are just so very serious, Dove, none of us thought that you knew how to laugh!” She’d explained. The statement had cut deeper than Claret could have expected. The werewolf could count on one hand the number of times she had genuinely laughed about something freely in the time since she’d left Cicero. It was a sad thing to think about. When she had been with the fool she rarely ever stopped laughing. The white haired woman had smiled sadly and excused herself. SInce then, the others had tried all sorts of antics to get a laugh out of her. It was amusing as hell and endearing all at once. 

Festus, an aged old Breton man and self proclaimed grumpy old uncle of the family, lived up to the title pretty well. He was a bit of a hard ass, but Claret was used to that, and there was just something about the old man that she just liked. He was a stubborn bastard, with a mean streak a mile wide and was set in his ways about things, but he was obscenely intelligent and more than happy to explain and teach with enough prodding. He’d spent an entire afternoon and well into the late evening discussing with Claret the ins and outs of proper destruction magic. She had always been curious about magic in general but personally knew none save for a basic flames spell and even then, she’d been discouraged from using it. He had puffed up proudly and she was happy to indulge his antics if it made him happy and she learned something. 

And then there was Veezara. He was trouble, she determined. He was sweet, gentle, attentive, and very polite. He was also prone to staring at the white haired woman anytime that she was within eyesight. It was unnerving. She liked him. But she wished for the life of her that she knew what he wanted from her. So she kept their interactions short whenever possible. He didn’t force conversation upon her thankfully, and he was very skilled in fighting, often offering to train with her. After waking for the day, she would meet with him in the main area and the two of them would stretch together and spar. Sometimes they used fists, others weapons. Claret had always been a bit rougher with her fighting. She was a Broadsword user, a front line brawler where most of the fighting was less about finesse and more about power and being about to take a beating. Even in the short time that she and Veezara had begun working together she had learned a lot. Daggers were less clumsy in her hands and she began to rely more and more on her small size and agility over brute force. 

And then there was Nazir. The Redguard was a very blunt individual. He handled business like a master and didn’t take shit from anyone. His sense of humor was just as dark as Gabriella’s but he was much more guarded about himself. He had flat out told her that he wasn’t interested in knowing anything about her until she proved that she wasn’t going to get herself killed off right away. That was of course, a challenge in the eyes of the white haired halfling. She went out of her way to win him over, adding to his dry puns, helping him with dinner, and while he tried to act all distant and uncaring, she caught the smirks and amused looks on his face from time to time. He liked her, even if he wasn’t ready to admit it yet. 

Arnbjorn was avoiding her. With good reason. There was mutual avoidance on her end too. She knew that Astrid had probably told him about their little conversation and no doubt he was waiting for the inevitable shit storm to hit. Claret wasn’t ready to deal with that mess. Astrid however, acted as though nothing had happened between them. She spoke with Claret often, joining her with the other women for communal baths and making the newcomer feel welcome, much to Claret’s surprise. And while the half elf was expecting a boot out of the door at any moment from Astrid, she really did admire the woman. She was keeping the Brotherhood alive, despite the odds and doing it mostly on her own. It was impressive as hell. 

It was a little over three weeks in, when Astrid gave Claret her first official contract. She was to head to Markarth. Great. Markarth was a headache even on a good day. This worked in her favor however because it was time for her to head up to meet with the Companions in a couple weeks. The young woman was both nervous and excited to finally have been granted a contract from Astrid. She knew that the blonde woman would accept nothing less than success and honestly, neither would Claret. The rest of the family were buzzing with advice, offering good luck and it was so overwhelming to the white haired woman that she had to take a moment to breathe outside. They all treated her like a baby bird about to take its first flight and she supposed that in a way, this was true.

The half elf left late in the evening to better conceal the entrance to the hideout. She guided the big warhorse through the thick pines to the road. Empress bounded beneath her, happy to be moving and running rather than cooped up in the stables. The journey was long but pleasant. She wasn’t bothered by bandits or any wildlife and the skies were clear so she made good time. It took her a good two day’s hard ride, with small rests for her mount to arrive at the big gates to the city of silver. Markarth was the prettiest city in Skyrim, in her opinion. And it was also a filthy shithole full of corruption. Thalmor, Foresworn spies, murderers, a selfish Jarl who couldn’t see the poverty stricken hundreds cowering in the dark beneath the city. The place pissed her off. It was early morning, the sun casting the pale stone of the city walls in hues of pink and gold as Claret stabled her horse and made her way inside. Hushed, fog lined streets that were still in that blissfully sleepy quiet greeted her and she was glad for it. She headed to the Inn and paid for a room using a false name from the groggy, henpecked innkeeper that sleepily handed her a key and locked herself away for the day to rest. And as always, her sleep was restless, fitful. Even with the sleeping potion that Babette had brewed her, the white haired woman only managed a few hours of actual sleep. She was fairly certain that if she didn’t find a solution for her nightmare issue soon that she was probably going to die of exhaustion. 

She could always cure herself. That thought gave her pause. Remove the werewolf blood from her veins? Not feeling the restless need to run at night would likely help with some of it. She lay on the thick furs that did nothing to cushion the stone bed beneath her and stared up at the ceiling, feeling lost. She had been a werewolf longer than she had been anything else. Claret wasn’t sure that she even remember how to be human. The strength that she gained from her beast was a reassuring weapon that had kept her alive all of these years. Could she really go without it? Fear tightened its hold on her chest. The curse was a hindrance in a lot of ways but it also gave her the pack, her senses, the ability to transform and hunt and to be more than just what she was outside. There was nothing more liberating than running as the wolf alongside her pack. 

Except, they were not her pack any longer. She had given them up for Kodlak. No. She wouldn’t lie to herself any longer. She hadn’t killed the SIlver Hand for Kodlak. Sure his death had been the catalyst, but she had executed each of them, butchered them all with her own hands because she had wanted to and had enjoyed it. They had taken what was hers and so she had taken their lives as payment. It was monstrous to think about. What was more monstrous was that she wasn’t sickened by herself and a part of her missed the screams and the fear. She could justify her actions all day with needing the pieces of the ax that they kept, protecting the Companions from discovery, avenging her adopted father, but in the end, Claret had killed them because the dragon inside of her had wanted it and liked it. The murderer inside had loved it. 

She bit her lower lip. She would think on it. For now, she needed food and to prepare herself to contact her client. The young woman bathed in the dwemer powered shower that was set up in a bathroom down the hall from her room, basking in the luxury of the hot water and dressed simply before heading into the main room to take a seat at the bar for a meal. She kept alert while letting her eyes ghost over a book to keep anyone from bothering her for conversation as she scouted the room for potential trouble. The inn was busy but not crowded and mostly full of workers getting a drink after a long day in the mines and the few patrons. A short haired woman sat next to her sipping a mug of something and looking anxious and tense. Her client, perhaps?

“Here you are miss Muiri,” The barkeeper said, setting down a meal for the woman. Satisfied with her reconicense, Claret finished her meal and retreated to her rooms. She dressed in the tight leather of her shrouded armor, pulled up her cowl and hood and slipped a cloak over the whole thing. Weapons in place at her sides, the assassin strode back through the chattering crowds unnoticed save for the occasional curious look. She wasn’t here to harm anyone, and they would forget all about her after a few pints. Her gloved hand came to settle on the shoulder of the young woman from earlier and wide, startled eyes turned to look into the shadowed hood that hid Claret’s features. Muiri’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. Poor girl. Claret smirked behind her mask. 

“A-are you?” Muiri stammered out softly and Claret said nothing, gesturing in the direction of the woman’s room with a slight nod. There was now a light in those light brown eyes and the short haired woman walked quickly before Claret, leading the way. When the door closed behind them, Muiri whirled with an anxious excitement to her. The contract was… well. Petty to an extent. The girl had gotten tricked by a burglar and she was outcast by the family that were practically her own. Claret could understand the desire to have the man killed. But the daughter of the family that kicked her out? That was petty. And cruel. And Claret couldn’t find it in herself to decline the additional target. She took the girl’s poison and pocketed it then silently left. Speaking was pointless. She had a target. 

Claret dressed down in travel clothes and resupplied for a long journey to Winterhold and after another restless night’s sleep, left while the city was still quiet. 

The journey was longer still, and she was delayed by various bandits, whom she mercilessly killed and several Forsworn, whom she fired warning shots at until they left her be. She wasn’t a Nord, nor was she affiliated with anyone in particular. The Forsworn only really went out of their way to attack people stupid enough to encroach on their camps and who looked to be particularly Nordic. It also helped that she had cleaved the head from one’s shoulders and brutally chucked his head at his friends with a demand to be allowed to pass or she’d kill all of them. The trip through the Reach was pleasant after that. She took a boat out of Solitude to Dawnstar a week into her trip. She hated boats with a passion, but it was faster, and took her around Morthal, rather than through it. Dawnstar was just as calm and cheerful as she remembered, but she didn’t linger, keeping herself cloaked and skirting town to prevent recognition. She and Empress made good time to Winterhold, where she stabled her mount and entered the Inn. Farkas and the others of the circle looked up the moment that she entered the warm room. 

Claret was surprised to see all of them, including Skjor. But then, this was for Kodlak. She stopped herself from worrying about who was watching the others. The small woman barely managed to lower her hood before she was swept up into a bear hug from Farkas. The white haired woman let out a half squeak of surprise before returning the greeting, dangling comically high off the ground in his arms. 

“Hello to you too, big guy,” She chuckled and he beamed at her as he sat her on her feet. She followed him back to the table where the others sat a bit stiffly. They watched her with careful eyes, but she couldn’t sense any malice from them. Just distance. And that was alright. Dinner was spent telling tales about Kodlak, of the days when Skjor was put in charge of training them as welps. It was nostalgic and companionable, but sad. For just a little while, things were back to the way they used to be. She and the others picked at each other like before, laughing over memories.They drank and ate and retired to rented rooms, where Claret sat on her bed reading Kodlak’s journal until her potions kicked in. 

The group set out early in the dawn for the tomb. It was not lost on her that even after her declared retirement from the companions that they still fell back into pack formation behind her as they trudged through the snow. Outsider or no, she was still Alpha. Clearing the tomb was simple enough with Jorvaskr’s finest with her and in under a couple hours they found themselves before the Harbinger chamber. 

“We will wait here, Claret,” Vilkas stated as they stared into the spacious room, the eternal fire in the center crackling warmly. She gave him a questioning glance and he sighed softly, looking worn down. “The old man wanted us to be free of the curse. And in my panic and despair over his loss, I spread it further. I cannot face him, not right now.”

“We all did this, not just you, Vilkas,” Aela added softly, “ I may not share the views of the former Harbinger, but Kodlak was the man I respected most and I threw that respect away by going against his requests so quickly and completely.” 

Claret was quiet for a long moment, glancing between the four of them. She chewed on her lower lip and nodded. 

“I understand… I think that Kodlak would understand your actions as well. He wouldn’t want you to wallow in what happened,” She murmured before entering the room. It was bright, yet somber, the ornate carvings on the walls depicting the countless many that were companions. Claret let her eyes sweep the room, not really certain of what to expect. She’d come here with the power to break the curse, but no real way of curing Kodlak in death. Or so she thought. A pale blue specter strode toward her from the fire and his features pulled a gasp from her lips. His mouth curved into a warm, tender smile. 

“What’s wrong, pup, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” He chuckled and she couldn’t stop the tears that sprung free of her wide eyes. The spirit stopped close by, radiating a soft chill that most ghosts did. 

“I’m so sorry!” She sobbed out and his smile warmed even more, a cool, barely there hand soothing her hot cheek, “ I ran. I was so scared of the responsibility, of failing. I should have been there to defend you!” 

“Ah, sweet girl, my death would have come one way or another and nothing that you did could have prevented that. And yes, you ran, but you came back. And you’ve grown so much since you left us. You’ve become strong,” He replied gently, pulling her into a light embrace that held her shaking form. 

“I’ve done so many terrible things, “ She confessed through her tears and the ghost sighed softly against her. It felt like being cradled by a soft, cool breeze; there and tangible, but insubstantial all at once. 

“We all do terrible things. You my girl, have a destiny that is far bigger than right and wrong. I can feel the void around you just as surely as I feel the dragon. I can never feel anything less than proud of you, my daughter, no matter your path,” He added and she felt her heart twist painfully in her chest. She wiped at her tears, and composed herself, compartmentalizing everything. 

“How can I see you?” She asked, curiosity pushing through her sadness. 

“All of the Harbingers of old may gather in this place. You see me because I was your Harbinger and I am sure may of the older companions like Vignar would see several more of us. I have been waiting here, clinging to the living world to avoid the call of the Hunting Grounds,” He explained. Claret felt determination swell in her then. 

“I can free you from Hircine. I found the witches and took their power,” She replied and he smiled at her. 

“I knew you would. Come, let us end this then,” He gestured to the fire ring and swallowing, the white haired young woman summoned up the energy that she had taken from the witches when she had cut off their heads. The fire burned brilliant blue and a terrible howl filled the room. 

“On your guard my girl, the wolf comes!” Kodlak shouted and Claret whirled in time to witness a deep glowing red form burst free from Kodlak. His wolf paced the room snarling, standing the size of a large pony. Kodlak drew his sword and lunged and Claret shook herself of her surprise to pull free her own blade. The beast was unnaturally fast, but she and Kodlak had fought together for years and worked together in tandem, forcing it alternate its focus between them while the whittled it down. With a harsh cry, Kodlak slammed his shimmering sword into the wolf’s throat and it exploded into tendrils of light that faded like a fog in mid morning. The fight had been quick, much to her surprise. Kodlak looked happier than she’d ever seen him. He spoke no words, only pressed a kiss to her forehead and faded away. Claret sank to her knees before the fire, feeling a mixture of relief and sorrow. She breathed, forced herself to calm, the crackle of the fire was warm and soothing after the harsh cries of battle. And then she felt it. 

Hesitantly, she let her eyes raise up a set of four, glowing white legs to meet the eyes of her own wolf mere inches from her own. It watched her with aquamarine eyes that matched hers and was just as still, tense. She swallowed hard, half expecting it to snap her head off. The beast was tall, much larger than Kodlak’s, a thick wafting mane of light shifting down it’s spine like a cape. She stared into the creature that had been a part of her ever since she was a young girl and felt lost. She didn’t want to kill her. The wolf was part of herself, even if she did not want it anymore. Claret tensed further when the creature huffed and moved. The wolf backed away and turned, casting her a backward glance before trotting away into nothingness. There was a sudden emptiness in her chest that hadn’t been there before, a lightness. What had just happened? 

Claret reached inside to that dark place that her wolf remained in, only to find nothing. She hadn’t killed the wolf like she had been meant to. The wolf had simply left. What? Feeling confused and bewildered and more than a little overwhelmed, she exited the tomb in a numb haze after explaining what had happened. They wanted to stay and commune with Kodlak and explore, reclaim the place for the companions. That was fine. It wasn’t her business anymore. She didn’t even remember returning to the Inn. She spent the remainder of the day recovering and adjusting to the oddness of not having the wolf and it was a bit painful. She used her contract from Muiri as a means of relearning her body. It was different not having the added strength of the werewolf, but she was faster, more controlled than she had ever been. The dragon that she was had full reign to come to the forefront now. The kill on the woman was first while Claret was in Windhelm. A stealthy poisoning of the woman’s mead at the inn was all that it took. She died in her room moments after drinking it. The man was much more interesting however. 

He screamed like a dying rabbit when she set the room on fire with her thu’um. The thu’um felt different, stronger. The shouts came to her like breathing. She left cinders behind in the dwemer ruins and nothing more. Her trip back home was one of exploration. She tested her limitations, discovered things that she could do now that had been impossible before. Sleep came easier, though the Prince of nightmares still haunted her dreams. All in all, she really couldn’t help but feel a sense of peace letting the wolf go. Where it went, however, was worrisome. It took her two weeks of leisurely travel to return to Muiri. That had been awkward. She had been so pleased that she’d offered for Claret to spend the night with her. The white haired woman had never been so grateful for a face mask in her life. She’d politely declined and made a tactical retreat. With how Muiri went about seeking revenge on her lovers, Claret knew that she wanted nothing to do with the woman. Yeesh. 

It was raining by the time she reached home, and even Empress was happy to be back in her stall with the others after a whole day of being drenched. Claret made quick work of getting the mount settled before heading inside, quirking a curious brow at the sight of a wagon hidden behind the stable and what appeared to me an extra horse. Did they have a new member? Curious and a little concerned, Claret greeted the door and slipped inside of the blessedly dry cavern. She strode down into Astrid’s office, a bit surprised to not see her perched over her desk, but shrugged it off. He still sensitive hearing picked up a rather boisterous sounding conversation and she frowned, picking up the pace. 

“Of course, Mistress, you’re the boss! Humble Cicero only lives to serve,” A familiar, voice chuckled and Claret froze in her tracks. Her breath left her in a rush and her heart shot up into her throat. Cicero was here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really satisfied with this one in many places, but I was tired of making you all wait and struggled through it. Things will be much smoother now. ^_- Maybe not so much for Claret though. Forgive the lateness of this chapter. Work is kicking my ass and a lot of things have happened between that and completely uprooting my life and getting resettled and all, having time to write has been challenging.


	13. Bride of Hircine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Also known as: Where Claret's Wolf Fucked off To
> 
> I've re-written this three times and this newest version went in a direction I was not expecting, but I think that I like it. I hope that you do too.

Thirteen

 

He was here. How? Claret struggled to get her brain to move, to understand what she was hearing. He was RIGHT there in the next room, talking with Astrid. What in the flying fuck was he doing here?! She felt like the floor had dropped out from under her. She forced herself to focus on breathing in and out. She was elated to hear his voice and also terrified all at once. Would he remember her? Would he hate her? Probably. She tried very hard not to think about the trembling in her limbs as she swallowed and licked her dry lips nervously, tucking her cowl back up in place. She would report to Astrid, see that this was some strange, heart break induced hallucination, and go to bed after consuming enough ale to drown a mammoth. Plan in place, she bravely cleared the final step and entered the main atrium. The others had just begun to disperse from around Astrid and the atmosphere was fairly tense in the room. 

 

She stopped for the second time, eyes focused on the tall, thick pine box that stood so innocently in the middle of the room. She would recognize that box anywhere. Cicero’s mother. She remembered then that the Jester had said that he was going to be settling in Falkreath, taking his mother to a new resting place. He wore nothing but red and black, was experienced in torture and very good at sneaking and stabbing. The red head was a follower of Sithis. He carted around a giant coffin that he was obsessively protective of to the point of violence. The Night Mother. Cicero was of the Brotherhood all along. There was a soft sigh in her mind, happy and content and even though she wanted to be afraid and angry, Claret only felt a strange sort of relief at the return of the sound of the motherly woman that had guarded her dreams so many months ago. 

 

“Ah, there you are, dear Sister. How was your hunt? No, tell me all about it later with the others. We’ve all been waiting to hear of your success. Would you mind showing our Keeper Cicero to the quarters near the back of the Sanctuary. They are private and close to the chamber for the Nightmother. I am sure that you must be weary from your long journey, Keeper,” Astrid said and Dove blinked owlishly at her before turning to look up at the man she didn’t think that she would ever see again. He was just as perfect as he was the last time she’d seen him, handsome, pale, and devilish. His golden eyes trained on her with a critical curiosity and not wanting to be recognized, she bowed her head in respect and strode past him to the back stairwell to lead the way. She could feel his eyes on her like something physical and she prayed to SIthis that he wouldn’t know her. 

 

This back half of the sanctuary looked a little worse for wear, but was still furnished. There was an alcove of a room that she lead the man to, simple and with whatever he would need. A cold draft rolled through the room from the back corner and she felt her brows furrow in concern. Why would Astrid make their brother stay so far from the others in this drafty, cold room that was isolated from the family. That didn’t seem right. She had never really wandered back here and the musty scent of unuse and mildew was strong. She stood in the doorward before Cicero feeling mortified and slightly angry. This was where Astrid wanted to put her once lover? She tried very hard to keep the stiff inner rage from her posture, but it was nearly impossible. 

 

“Sister, no need to fret. I am sure that Astrid has her reasons for placing the poor lonely keeper back here. It is perfect for Cicero!” His voice was cheerful, excited even, and after months of traveling together despite their time apart, she could tell it was false. 

 

“Liar,” The growled mumble left her lips before she could think and the room went very still. She could feel him behind her at a short distance, feel his stare. Claret swallowed hard, hands curled into trembling fists at her sides as her heart pattered like some anxious frightened thing in her chest. 

 

“You...It cannot be,” His voice was a quiet rasp that had her shivering. He would be so angry with her if he knew. Surely, he would kill her or hurt her at the very least. She welcomed his rage. Shaking in a mixture of anger at the treatment Astrid had given him and her fear of his reaction, Claret turned about. The room was dark, lit only by the moonlight filtering in through the cracks in the ceiling. The reddish light reflected off of her pitch black armor made her look something daedric. She knelt before the too still mad man, looking up his motley clad form to fix on his now red eyes. He was still a vampire, but he hadn’t felt like a vampire earlier. It was baffling. He’d hid it. Somehow. Why? 

 

Her gloved hands pulled down her cowl and pushed aside her hood. His sharp inhale made her heart twist in her chest like a dagger as her too long hair tumbled down around her to pool at her sides on the floor. 

 

“Dove,” He breathed, voice both disbelieving and fractured. She let her eyes drink in his pale face, his blood red hair and now glowing eyes. Her emotions and thoughts were a deafening riot and she couldn’t stop her eyes from overflowing with them and spilling down her cheeks. 

 

“Cicero,” His name tumbled from her lips in a soft, agonizing whisper and he flinched visibly, broken from the unnatural stillness he had fallen into. His eyes narrowed, anger and then relief, followed by more anger and then sadness flickered across his face with an alarming speed, the jester seeming to be struggling to grapple with the situation. 

 

“You are here. All this time?” He asked, speaking softly, as if afraid to speak too loud and make her vanish again from his sight like every other delusion he’d had of meeting her again. She shook her head, watching him in that wary way she always did when he was acting a little crazy. 

 

“I was recruited a little over two months ago. I’ve spent more time away from the sanctuary than in it,” She answered slowly. He let out a breath, slow and drawn out, and she could just see him struggling to recompose himself. 

 

“I ran,” She stated and before she could elaborate his voice followed hers.  
“Yes. You did. Like you had said countless times that you wouldn’t,” His voice was hard and full of a chilling sarcasm that she really couldn’t fault him for. 

 

“I had to,” She tried again and he laughed, a short, derisive snort that was anything but amused. 

 

“No, you didn’t. You were afraid of your own guilt and Cicero was the one who was punished for it in the end. Cicero knows you far too well. He’s very good at reading people. Has to be. You can tell yourself all of the pretty little lies you like to justify yourself for leaving me alone and breaking your promise, but it won’t change the irrefutable fact that you ran from yourself. Not me. And I suspect that it was not the first time Dove has done so. Or should I call you, Claret?” It was the sanest and harshest she’d ever heard his voice. The sound of her name on his lips had chills breaking out all over her quaking form. She couldn’t be really all that surprised that he knew her birth name. He was an assassin. And he was completely correct. She was dancing around the truth again because her pride didn’t want to hear her admit her insecurities aloud to him of all people. It was pretty damned stupid too. She was concerned about looking childish and foolish to him with words when really she’d already made herself look far worse in actions years ago. How long was she going to continue being stupid?

 

“I’m so sorry,” She mumbled out and she heard the creak of leather as his fists tightened at his sides. His face was blank now, walls fully in place, eyes back to a dulled gold. 

 

“Yes well, I must tend to Mother. I expect that you’ll find your way out before I return. An initiate has no further reason to fraternize with the Keeper anyway,” He stated, voice happy and light once again but she knew the difference between his tones, his true happy voice and this false act. The dismissal was painful, especially the added bit about their stations. He outranked her, by how much, she wasn’t sure. He was being cruel intentionally, verbally pouting at her for her treatment of him. And yet, as she sat there on the dirty floor watching his retreating form, she couldn’t resent him for it. She deserved every bit of it. 

 

There was a flutter, deep in her chest that her sadness and mortification couldn’t entirely crush. Hope. He was here, near her again. That was a start.

 

After cleaning up in a washbasin and slipping on something comfortable, Claret had curled up on her small bed, not feeling up to dining with the others with her emotions so out of control. So with her furs pulled up over her head to both block out the typical boisterous nature of the family and to muffle any sounds that she made, the white haired woman wept her heartache into her pillow until sleep took her at last. Blissfully, she did not dream. 

 

When she finally opened her sleep crusted eyes, she could tell from the snores around her that it had to be into the afternoon. Most of the family slept during the day since it was a better practice for their work to be done at night. Claret rose feeling exhausted despite what was the longest, best sleep she’d had in years. It took every ounce of her mental fortification to not simply crawl back into bed when she settled her bare toes on the cold stone floor. No, she had things to do. The sooner, the better. She washed the sleep from her face and donned simple travel clothes and a cloak before scrawling out a note explaining her absence before making her way through the winding halls to the surface. The Night Mother’s coffin was gone and for one, foolish, heartbreak induced moment, her brain jumped to the conclusion that Cicero had left and fear squeezed her heart tight. And then logic caught up to her. She was being stupid. He very likely moved her to someplace more secure than the open room. 

 

She hated being emotionally compromised. It made her feel idiotic. So with a huff, she left, determined to head into town and seek out a craftsman that could teach her how to repair a hole in a cave wall. Cicero could be angry with her as much as he wanted, but that wasn’t going to stop her from trying to at least make him more comfortable. She would not leave his chambers in such a poor state. Granted, she knew that the red haired man did not sleep much to begin with. It didn’t stop her from wanting to do something for him. And it wasn’t because he was the Keeper or a member of the Brotherhood or even because he was upset with her. She still saw him as hers in some twisted, convoluted way. He had become herse early on in their journey together, she realized. That cold night when she had done what she needed to in order to take care of him? Or perhaps even when she’d taken it upon herself to get his wagon fixed in the first place? Whenever it happened, she had marked him in her mind as hers, just like Vilkas and Farkas, like her housecarls, like Aventus and (most) of her new family. He was hers. And she took care of what was hers, even if it took her a little while to realize when she was being stupid. 

 

The ride to Falkreath was quiet and full of contemplation for her. Birdsong echoed all around her through the vibrant evergreens that encased the path, broken up by the clatter of Empress’ hooves on the barely there cobblestone that marked the road. The air was warm and the sunlight cast rays of dappled gold through the thick arms of the trees. It was a much needed moment of peace and between the beautiful serenity of the forest and her focused thoughts on the tasks she’d planned out, Claret was more than ready to face the day. Falkreath was a surprisingly cheerful town despite being made up of mostly dead people. The extensive graves wound around the whole of it and stretched out along the hillside and between the trees like weeds. Outsiders tended to see the whole place as sort of morbid and more than a little unnerving, but there was a peace and quiet about Falkreath that you just couldn’t find anywhere else. 

 

Also, all of the businesses were playing on death. That was hilarious. She often wondered it the brotherhood settled near it because of the graveyard and the amount of death or if Falkreath had come later and it was all a big coincidence. She smiled and greeted those who passed and greeted her on her way to the blacksmith. Seemed as good a place to start as any. He was a big man, like most smiths, covered in soot and with a gruff exterior. Claret smiled. 

 

“G’day, lass, what can I do for you?” He asked and his voice, while rough, was kind. She gave him a sheepish grin.

 

“Ah, actually yes. I was wondering if I could pay you to teach me how to repair a cellar wall. I’ve a guest room in my basement but there is a large hole near the top that I need to patch up to keep out the cold and moisture. I want to learn myself how to care for my home and I don’t really know where to start,” She explained and there was a spark of appreciation on his features. 

 

“Ah, good on you lass. I’ll teach you what I can, but my skills don’t come cheap,” He replied. Of course they don’t. It was nearly dark by the time that the smith felt satisfied that she knew how to successfully fill in a hole with clay and quarry stone. She was tired and filthy and didn’t feel like riding all the way back and seeing Cicero on top of the physical strain and settled for renting a room at the inn. Claret curled around a warm mug of mead near the fire in the center of the main room, ignoring the bustle of the other patrons. She was sore from gathering materials and lifting a pickaxe for hours and then carrying them back to the smith, her hands dried out and clay caked under her nails from many more hours of repetitively chopping the stone to smaller, more uniform pieces and pasting them together into something mostly even over and over again. 

 

She was stronger than your typical mortal by far, able to lift unrealistically heavy objects and boasting incredible stamina even before using a shout. However, she’d never mined anything before or crafted much beyond simple repairs to straps and half assed welds to prevent metal bits from falling apart before she could buy something new. Without the werewolf to heal aches and such quickly, a deep, satisfying muscle burn had settled into her limbs and back from using them in a way that they usually didn’t get used. She was in the middle of retracing the lesson in her head start to finish, step by step for the fifth or so time when I passing conversation caught her attention and had chills rolling down her arms. 

 

“A werewolf!” A man whispered loudly to a tense group behind her and it took her a moment of breathing to remind herself that they weren’t talking about her. Her wolf left. She was not a werewolf anymore. However, a very different fear prodded at her then and she strained to listen, growing still and serious among the revels of the Inn. “Yeah that was my reaction. You hear about them all the time as horror stories but I’ve never actually heard or seen anything close to one with actual proof behind it until yesterday.”

“I can’t believe that monster half ate that child. Poor girl. Her poor parents. I would have butchered the monster right then and there, fed his guts to skeevers while he was alive!” A second hissed bitterly, “ But no no, he turns back into a man and even seeing the proof right there, the damn guard lock him up in a fucking hole instead.”

 

“With as lazy as the Jarl is, the shit will die of old age before anyone deals with him,” Another joked, earning some mild laughter. “Poor bastard will eat himself from boredom, I’m sure.” 

 

Claret glared into her mug, digesting. It was definitely not Arnbjorn. For all of his rogue like actions and lone wolf attitude, he was far too controlled and careful to allow himself to lose himself and risk the family. Though, she suspected that he had no issue with eating a child if he were hungry enough. As much as the big man postured, he had a soft spot for children. She knew that from her own experiences. Claret was also fairly certain that if one of the Companions had gone rogue that the Circle would have sent a letter here to the Inn. She’d mentioned that she passed through town often to them just in case they needed to send her word of something. So this was a stranger, a lone wolf that had made a foolish, novice mistake. He sounded like someone who was very new to the wolf blood. 

 

She stewed in her curiosity for a few heartbeats before leaving the inn and heading toward the barracks. It was still early in the night so she hoped that she could convince the guard to let her see this so called werewolf. They stared at her for a long moment before ushering her through.

 

“Yes, yes, yet another to come gawk at the monster. Be quick though, we are locking up,” One relented finally and she hurried down the stone halls into the depths of the small prison to the single cell. It was open to the sky, thick bars allowing the moonlight to fill the round hole that had a large, waist deep pool of rainwater in its center. As far as prisons went, it was pretty awful. No bed, no latrine of any imagination, open to the elements and whatever the villagers decided to toss down at him from above. And judging from the scent of rotten vegetables and a chunk of floating cabbage in the little pond, the locals had done just that. The man was huddled against the far wall, malnourished and covered in rags. Greasy, blond hair hung in clumps about his face and shoulders. A nord, unshaven, and even her unwolf senses could tell he hadn’t bathed in months. Blissfully, she didn’t know him. 

 

He noticed her standing there after a few moments, jerking from his position and back against the wall, chest heaving. He hadn’t heard or smelt her approach. He was either too young of a wolf or too weak for his gifts to do him any good. Her passive stance in front of his cell doors gradually had him relaxing. He was like a frightened puppy, or the wolves that she’d freed in Morthal, waiting for the next blow to come from everywhere. Poor mongrel. She could not stop herself from curling her hands around the bars and watching him expectantly. The nord crossed the room to her, skittish and wary. She was patient. 

 

“Did you do it?” She asked simply, face devoid of judgement and the farthest thing from afraid of the tall, but lanky man. He worried at the torn bottom of his shirt.

 

“I did. I-I didn’t mean to! I couldn’t control it! The curse, it...forced me to attack that girl,” He admitted and Claret nodded, smiling sadly but gently at him, reassuring. So he was a new blood. Many new werewolves were unable to control the change, unable to contend with the intense instincts of the wolf. He seemed to settle down a bit at her calm appearance. 

 

“Being a lycanthrope does not have to be a curse,” She murmured and he stilled, staring at her with a new interest. He scented the air, eyes wide and confused. 

 

“You speak like...but you don’t smell like a wolf?” She gave him a rueful smile, peering up at him.

 

“It is a long, long story. To simplify, I am but I am not at the current moment,” She replied and he gave her an assessing look, licking his lips nervously and nodded a little too rapidly. 

 

“Please, you have to help me. I did something… something foolish. I stole from Hircine,” He whispered and it was her turn to look startled, mouth dropping open in shock before she caught up with herself. 

 

“What?” She hissed, torn between surprise, a bit of anger, and pity. How could this weakling have stolen anything from the lord of the hunt? Her brows knitted together. 

 

“I know! I know, I’m an idiot. I was having trouble controlling the change. My pack was on the verge of exiling me. Our pack has protected the ring of Hircine for centuries, waiting for the Lord of the Hunt to claim it or name a Champion. I...stole it. It has the ability to allow the wearer to fully control the beast blood, to call it at will and to put it away in an instant,” He explained, tears building in his eyes. “I thought that with the ring, I could learn control, bring it back when I could keep the blood secure without it. But Hircine was angry about it. He cursed the ring to do the opposite. He appeared to me and told me to hunt the white stag, if I can kill it, he will lift the curse.” 

 

Claret blinked slowly, heart hammering in her ears. Hircine had spoken to this fool? Hircine was not her god, not really, but he was definitely an entity that she held in extremely high regard. Of the Daedric Princes he was one of the few that she legitimately feared and respected. He was the source of all werewolves, after all. Vaermina terrified her yes, but not in the same way that Hircine did. She feared displeasing him because she respected him. Vaermina was just creepy. 

 

“I know it sounds insane. I know that, but please. Help me find the stag. I tracked it here, I was so close! And then the curse acted up outside of town, the child got caught up in it and I couldn’t control it. I don’t want to kill anyone else!” He pleaded, sinking to his knees and grasping at her dress through the bars. Every last inch of her wanted to say no. She knew this was a bad idea. Her past dealings with the Daedric Princes told her to run the fuck away and leave the poor sod to die. And yet… something stirred in her guts, something hungry and feral and curious. To hunt the legendary white stag of Hircine was an honor for any hunter, especially a child of the moon. Her wolf was gone, but that didn’t stop that ingrained desire to hunt from rising to the forefront. 

 

“And why should I help a murderer and a thief?” She felt herself ask, feeling the stirrings of left over alpha instincts burning in her chest. He stole from his pack, was being punished by Hircine himself for it. 

 

“Because I will left you have the ring. I’ll let you have the ring and and...I can give you contacts with Solstheim’s pack,” He stammered, looking wild eyed and desperate. She sighed.  
“Neither of those things are worth gaining the attention of a Daedric Prince, welp. I am sure you are strong enough to get yourself out of here. I’ll hunt your stag,” She relented. She couldn’t stand seeing people cry. It was pathetic. She’d done enough crying herself over the past day to be well and truly sick of it. A filthy hand grasped hers and pressed a large ring into her palm. It was hot in her hand, pulsing with what felt like life and she shuddered at the feel of it. She backed away from him, gasping out under the feel of the ring in her hand thrumming with power. It tore up her arm like something alive and angry and she felt the wolf slam back into her chest, the sensation stealing the breath from her lungs and making her fall on her ass. 

 

Claret sat there in shock, fighting with a rush of images, instincts as she grappled with the return of her baser self. The blonde werewolf had transformed, scaling the wall of the prison to tear his way out while guards shouted and rushed down the hall, weapons raised. One jerked her to her feet, firing accusations at her before taking one look at her too pale face and assuming that the werewolf had terrified her and gave her a sympathetic look. Numbly, she let herself be led to the inn, thanking the young man that walked her there before hiding in her room. She shook all over, that supernatural energy that was her wolf clearing space again within the dragon. The ring had somehow managed to end up on her left ring finger, thick and hot and gleaming in the candlelight. The motif of a howling wolf encircled it, detailed fangs and fur impressively carved. It let off a magical hum unlike anything she’d felt before. 

 

She splashed her face with cool water, washing her hands and trying to pry the ring free. It stayed right where it was. Now she was afraid. And angry. She wanted it off. Now. She left the room and the inn silently, restlessly, forgoing her cloak and weapons save for the daggers she had strapped to her thighs. Instinct and need and fear spurred her up through town, into the forest. Her insides screamed to hunt and she couldn’t ignore it. She sprinted through the trees, nearly silent, inhaling the night air as her nocturnal gaze flitted about for movement. The female scented the rogue werewolf, his clumsy path through the trees. She snorted in distaste. Weak. Claret continued on, soft earth and foliage cushioning her steps. Her fingers curled around her weapons, spotting a flash of white through the underbrush. She lowered to the ground, slinking forward in a manner that was fluid and animalistic, muscles shifting in her arms and legs in ways that an elf nor human should be capable of. 

 

She stilled at the edge of the clearing, blue green stare locked on the white beast that grazed on green shoots in a small clearing. The moon made its snowy fur glisten and her heart ached for it. It was beautiful and killing it seemed a great shame. And all at once, her wolf snarled for it, needed it. She struck. She’d gotten quite fast without the wolf to rely on and with its returned strength and her newfound skill, she was across the clearing in a matter of heartbeats, daggers buried deep in the massive stag’s throat. The creature let out a dying cry and slumped to her feet. Claret blinked quizzically. There was no blood. She hesitantly sheathed her weapons, staring down at the white beast. And then it stood up. Blue light hummed from its body, much like the moon itself and she stumbled back from it in surprise. 

 

“Well met, Huntress,” It, or rather, he beamed at her, great head tilting down at her. She stared up at the stag in baffled surprise and the creature laughed deep, throaty in amusement. His voice was strong, dark, and rich, something to cling to and wrap yourself in and she shivered. 

 

“My Lord,” She replied after a moment of floundering for words. She knew he could be only one being. Claret had not expected the Lord of the Hunt to speak to her. 

 

“I am pleased that you received my ring, Claret. I’ve been waiting to meet you for so long,” He stated and she could feel his pleasure and pride through his voice like something tangible. 

 

“You know me,” It wasn’t a question, just a baffled mumble and the stag laughed again, large muzzle lowering to nuzzle affectionately at her hair. 

 

“I’ve known you for a long time, my sweet wolf. I’ve known you from the moment that you drank of the Companion’s cursed blood. You were special, even then. That sorry lot have gotten my gifts second hand, it is weak, diluted, and unpredictable. But you. Oh even as a child you were powerful. They may have held you back, but you flourished even still. It is only expected from a child of Akatosh, I suppose,” He was not what she had expected. Praising, warm, excitable, everything that Daedra seemed to not be. But then, she’d only really encountered a few. She knew better than to trust him. She really didn’t know what he wanted from her, though. What could she offer a Daedric Prince?

 

“What do you want?” She asked bluntly, stare hard, accusing, guarded. He chuckled and shook himself, blue eyes gleaming with mirth. 

 

“Ah, so forward and to the point. Like a breath of fresh air. No groveling or scrapping for praise,” He hummed, “ I’ve a hunt for you, my girl, if you are interested. Sinding, that sniveling weakling mutt has taken shelter in a grotto near here that lies halfway between my hunting grounds and your realm. Kill him, and I will give you my blessing as well as another of my artifacts, the Savior’s Hide.”

 

“What is the catch?” She asked suspiciously and he threw back his head in another laugh. She was glad that he found her so amusing, but it didn’t stop her ears from turning red. 

 

“There are hunters already stalking him, trying to earn my favor. You’ll have to beat them to it,” He warned, voice playful. He had to be up to something. Had to have some hidden agenda. 

 

“And what about this?” She asked, raising her left hand to show him the ring. He let out a happy sound in his throat. 

 

“Keep it. Uncursed, of course. It will keep you linked to that unruly wolf of yours while giving you the freedom to be what you wish. I can think of no better champion. Now go, my huntress! You’ve given them enough of a head start,” And then he was fading from sight, leaving the distraught woman standing dumbly in the empty clearing. She let out an angry growl. He was definitely up to something. A streak of defiance rolled through her. She may respect the god, but she also did not like being manipulated and she knew with every fiber of her being that he was trying to do just that. Angry and more than a little hungry, she did not fight the change. Her wolf swam up through her veins in a desperate push for freedom and she transformed with a howl, announcing her return to nirn with the eerie cry. Flashes of memory filled Claret’s thoughts. Her wolf had not been idle in her time away. The she wolf had been in Hircine’s hunting grounds, running at his side, but always just out of his reach. 

 

He’d liked that; enjoyed how she danced on the edge of disrespect and rebellion. The others in the hunting grounds crawled on their bellies at his feet but not her wolf, oh no. Even her wolf refused to submit to anyone, defiantly and tauntingly doing as she pleased, even in Hircine’s domain. She growled lowly, glowing eyes glaring at the spot the stag had stood upon. So he was trying to impress upon her better nature to gain some level of control of them then? Hah! He’d learn really quick that she was no more domesticated than her wolf. She bared her fangs and lowered to all fours, powerful limbs stretching as she reacquainted herself with this body. They hadn’t been apart for much more than a month really, but it had felt like an eternity. She had missed it. She was not relishing the thought of not being able to sleep again, however. 

 

Claret loped through the forest, tracking Sinding’s scent, letting her annoyance build in her gut. He was weak, an easy kill for any were worth anything. Her pace slowed when she neared the entrance to a cavern, the white furred female slinking forward, thick mane bristling at the scent of death and male and mortal alike. The long tunnel opened up into a strange place. The air felt hot and unnatural, the sky red with a full moon high overhead, also red. Forest and rocky outcroppings filled the area surrounding the small camp she’d stumbled upon. Interesting. The place reminded her a bit of the Eldergleam sanctuary where the great tree resided. There was blood lust in the air and that was the biggest difference. A pained groan from nearby har her growling and standing to her full height, towering over the half butchered body of a Khajit. He screamed at the sight of her, and then he died, her clawed fist closing through the front of his ribs and yanking. She swallowed the heart without a second thought. 

 

Excitement coursed through her like something wild and with a shiver, she threw back her head in a howl, a call to hunt. An answering call from deeper in echoed her and she stalked into the trees. Her white fur shimmered pink in the red light and she made her way toward the other wolf, skirting around the hunters that tromped through the underbrush like mammoths. And then he was there, slipping out of the shadows atop a rocky outcrop over the trail she had been following. His fur was matted and dirty, a ruddy gold and cream, glowing eyes a brownish yellow. She stepped into the path, and she watched his eyes widen, his neck canting to the side in submission. He knew without even trying that she was alpha. He looked different compared to the Companions. Granted, so did she, really. He also walked upright, though he was still smaller, but she suspected that had more to do with his lack of care toward himself than anything else. His gaze was crazed, cautious and she growled lowly, flashing teeth and demanding he control himself.  
He was useless if he were petrified and run by his instincts alone. Sinding blinked and slunk to her side, lowering himself and pressing against her leg, throat bared and a whine building from his mouth. She huffed. He was so ready to please. Good. He was not pack so she could not connect to him the way that she could the Companions, but he was close enough. She turned her stare to the coming torchlight, an anxious excitement trembling through her. She let out a soft bark of command and then she was moving, hunting and she felt him moving with her, echoing her steps and obeying. The hunters screamed like dying rabbits when she crashed through the trees onto one, snapping the man’s neck like it was nothing. Sinding took a second by the leg, dragging him into the misty darkness. Screams bounced about the area as Claret struck again and again, dodging fearful attacks and drenching her fur in the blood of the group. They took time to consume the hearts, Claret allowing Sinding to take most of them. He needed the energy and strength more than she did for sure. 

 

She was off again, the darker male in her wake, now eager to hunt with her. Claret ignored him. She let her wolf have control, and her other half was more than a little excited to show off the results of a month’s practice in Hircine’s hunting grounds. They snagged a maul mid swing in a clawed fist, her free hand hooking down the front of the man’s steel plate and yanking hard enough to rip it free and send it bouncing along the ground with a clank. Her teeth sank into his exposed throat with a sickening ‘snik’ and she flung the hammer at a second man that had been lining up a bow on her and caught the surprised man in the head with it. He toppled over and the shot went wide, grazing her cheek with a sharp sting. She snarled and was on him in moments, tearing his torso to bits. 

 

After hours of stalking and killing them, feasting on their hearts, the two wolves ended up near the cave entrance again. 

 

“Thank you so much. You found the Stag, you came to my aid when you had no real need to. My life if yours, if you’ll have it,” Sinding exclaimed to the white werewolf when he transformed back into a human. She knew that he couldn’t return to his clan and also that he was too green, to weak stomached for her line of work. He would make a terrible assassin as he was. She transitioned back to half elf and his gaze widened. Her bronzed, nude form looked so petite and fragile compared to the wolf monster she had been moments ago. 

 

“Go to Whiterun. Find the companions, specifically Farkas. Tell him that Claret sent you and he will look after you. You can redeem yourself for betraying your pack and murdering the child by following their ways and protecting Skyrim,” She demanded and he nodded over and over again, stumbling about to gather supplies from the dead and throw on some ill fitting armor. She watched him silently as he thanked her over and over, irritation rising and it was a relief when he finally left. Claret sighed deeply, wading into the shallow pool that was nearby to wash the blood from her body. She felt the charge in the air just moments after she resurfaced, whirling and prepared to defend herself only to stumble in surprise. 

 

A glowing figure stood in the water with her, easily thrice the size of a normal man. He had to be eight feet tall, and nothing but muscle on his large frame. He wore a short fur loin cloth about his waist, and dozens of bones of various creatures dangled from leather cords in intricate, yet morbid jewelry. His long ash brown hair was braided and hung over his shoulder in a loose plait, some shimmering strands dangling artistically from the impressive rack of antlers that rose up from his skull. The antlers emitted a faint glow of blue light, like the moon, just like the white stag’s had and the man’s dark blue eyes watched her with an ageless calm that took her breath away. He was tanned and perfect, no blemishes on his handsome features, from his pointed ears, to what she could see of his bare torso and beyond. She barely reached above his navel in height. It was terrifying. 

 

As for his face itself, he was painful to look at up close and not as a stag; those eyes two endless pools of cool energy above a sculpted nose and well formed cheekbones that tapered down in angled cheeks that were free of hair. His jaw was squared and very masculine and his chin was slightly clefted. His mouth was wide and bowed, bottom lip fuller than the top and parted in a smile that was predatory and pleased. Absolutely every inch of him screamed male and even the energy that he let off was almost too much to handle.

 

“Hircine,” she breathed, and he smiled. His smile was terrible and wonderful all at once and she felt her knees shake beneath her with the need to buckle. His very presence was almost painful. But a pleasurable pain, the sort of thing that if you had too much of, touched for too long, that it would hurt and hurt in a way that you wanted. He smelt of forest and blood and fur and he was all that she could focus on in the twilight of that strange world. His teeth were like a wolf’s and it only made him more handsome. A large hand steadied her, hot fingers splaying on her bare spine to pull her against him and prevent her from falling. 

 

“Hello again, my Huntress,” He purred and his voice did things to her that shouldn’t be possible. It made Vaermina’s seduction seem feeble and adolescent. Granted, he was here in front of her in the flesh and Vaemina could only send her unhappy nightmares. This man, now he was dangerous. Very dangerous. It wasn’t even the fact that he could probably rip her apart with barely any effort with just his hands. Honestly, it was that voice that did it. It was rich like thick honey that was strewn through shards of steel. Smooth and yet sharp all at once, with just a hint of bite. 

 

She gaped up at him like a moron while he chuckled down at her, neat brows arching in an amused arch. Claret grasped for words, trying very hard not to think about the very warm, very firm muscle that she braced herself against. Her face felt entirely too hot. So this was what it was like to be face to face with a god? He was terrifying. 

 

“You here to punish me now, lord of the hunt?” She asked, very proud that her voice managed to be so steady and she glared up at him, not at all liking the havok his presence was wreaking on her senses and mind. He was fucking with her without doing a damn thing. He grin turned feral and he tilted his head in a very animalistic manner. A strange sensation, hot and barely there teased at her skin, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. What is the hell was he doing? He hadn’t moved, hadn’t done anything physically, but there was that energy, that heat that felt a bit like the alpha aura. It pressed against her, teasing, tasting, seeking and she growled low in her throat. 

 

“Hah, still so defiant, aren’t you, my girl. Good! No I am not here to punish you, though I feel that both of us would certainly get some enjoyment out of it,” He teased her, smirk turning flirtatious and lecherous and she sputtered in surprise. We most certainly would NOT get any enjoyment at all in being manhandled by- ahem. Her glare darkened,” No, you clever girl. How could I punish you for turning the game inside out? What fun would there be, what challenge in simply killing an emaciated dog would there be for my Huntress, hmm? Twenty fine hunters in armor with weapons is much more fun!” 

 

The touch of his aura, his presence, magic, whatever, pressed up along her inner thigh and she snarled outright. 

 

“Stop that. I am not your Huntress or your girl or whatever silly machinations you’ve gotten that thick skull of yours into thinking up,” She hissed, embarrassed by her body’s reaction to him and more than a little annoyed that her act of defiance had only pleased him more. In typical Claret form, she lashed out verbally in response to something uncomfortable. When he didn’t smite her on the spot, but instead began legitimately laughing, she froze in surprise. 

 

“Ah, but my dear lady, that is what you, yourself declared, remember? Or do you prefer the title the the common rabble have given you? The name that my foolish worshippers murmur blessings from in their hunts?” He looked so damned smug that had he been anyone else, she may have gutted him. Her insides froze when her brain caught up to his words and her mouth fell open again. His eyes took on an unearthly glow that looked like two points of blue fire as his free hand traced her jaw and something almost sinister entered his touch. His lips caressed the words with something dark and possessive in tone,” Bride of Hircine.” 

 

She jerked back from him, stumbling away from his touch and watched him with impossibly wide eyes. He let her go and from the way he held himself, she was more than aware of his willingness to let her move from his grasp. If he had wanted, he could have had her anyway he wished and he wouldn’t have had to lift a finger. That aura of his would have done it for him. He was that powerful. His alpha was that powerful. She shook like a leaf, growl building in her chest that she could not stop. 

 

“I never claimed to be such. They called me that, they made that shit up like superstitious fools always make shit up!” She protested angrily.

 

“And yet, you wear my ring,” He stated in a sing song tone and she instinctively tried to remove the silver piece of metal. It stubbornly stayed right where it was. She shook her head over and over and with a snarl of his own, she dropped to her knees at his feet, head tilted in submission. “Calm yourself, my Huntress. I have no intention of forcing you into anything. If I had wanted that, your pretty legs would be around my waist already. I’ve watched you for quite a long time, Dragonborn, Claret. You’ve pleased me with your nature, your defiance. My gifts come with no strings, no catches. I name you my champion, my worthy Huntress who is the only one deserving of my artifacts. I will miss your wolf constantly dancing out of my grasp, but she can be so much more with you.”

 

“You are why my wolf form is so different from the others,” She stated. He shook his head.

 

“No, your blood did that all on its own. Dragons are defiant creatures, creatures of Akatosh, one of the divines. Their souls naturally repel illness and curses. The companions were infested with a curse created by some of my more… enthusiastically sadistic followers. Had they taken their wolf form directly from myself or a Shaman, they would all be more complete in form and have more control, like you. Still, some of them are still quite impressive for what they are,” He answered, large hand stroking her damp hair gently. 

 

“However, I ask two things of you, Claret,” He began, kneeling in the water with her and helping her to stand so that he was at eye level with her. She swallowed in nervous trepidation. Here it was. Daedric Princes were never anything but chaotic troublemakers. They never gave anything for free and what they did give came at a steep price. “Visit my hunting grounds on occasion, hunt with us when you sleep.”

 

“That’s...acceptable,” She responded, brows scrunching together in confusion. It wasn’t like she was not used to the wolf roaming the hunting grounds at night anyway, what harm would there be in occasionally running with Hircine himself and his pack?” And the second thing?” 

 

“Consider me. My proposal. Give me a chance to capture your love,” He murmured, aura dancing a breath away from her skin, feather light caresses tickling her spine and tumbling through her hair. She nearly swallowed her tongue. “I can think of no better hunt.”

 

“In your dreams,” She growled and he laughed that melodious, happy laugh that tingled in her head like sunlight and happy things. His hands cupped her face, nose nuzzling against her’s. 

 

“No, my girl, in yours,” His breath danced over her mouth and then he was gone, leaving her shaking violently in the cold stream. She was never sleeping again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep. So that happened. And oh look Hircine. x3 Yeah he was never supposed to make a physical appearance in the fic and then I started brainstorming over what he may look like and act like and then well...he charmed his way into the story. Do we like him? I know that I do, haha. Of the Daedric Princes, he is one of the few that I've always seen as relatively honorable despite his terrible tendency to spontaneously decide to start hunting people for sport. 
> 
> He seems the type to stick to his word and also like the sort of person that is impossible to insult. But don't let his laid back, good natured attitude toward Claret fool you. He is definitely up to no good. x3 After the completion of Claret, I am considering doing a second fic about a different character featuring more of Hircine and more about the au ish take on the werewolves I've come up with. If that sounds interesting, let me know!


	14. Two Years Ago in Morthal (Cicero)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Cicero you say? Okay!

Fourteen

Cicero had cried himself to sleep over his mother’s coffin after carefully tending to her after his time away. He’d been away from her for short periods of time before but never more than a day or two at the very most. He had been separated from her for nearly a week. His whole body had been in utter agony and as much as he had wanted nothing more than to curl around his sweet Dove and sleep, the space and time she had given him to tend to mother was greatly appreciated. Doubtlessly, she was off reporting to the Jarl of their success and restocking supplies and would return after bathing. His Dove very much liked to be clean, especially when she was upset. 

His dreams were odd, still, and the silence of them was deafening. He was trapped again in the halls of the Cheydinhal sanctuary, his personal hell. His family was dead and gone, The Night mother’s coffin silent and cold, and he was unable to hear anything, even his own voice, even the Jester. Panic swelled in his chest like something monstrous and he ran through the sanctuary, knowing what was going to happen and being unable to stop it. Mother’s corpse ignited into flame, her preserved body peeling away under the heat. But there was something new, something that horrified the Jester in ways he could not fathom. Claret’s tiny form was curled in the circle of Mother’s arms, her white hair floating about them in a curtain of burning embers. She turned those unusual, beautiful eyes to him, smiled, and spoke. 

“Listen,” Her voice was distorted, overlapping and cruel. The redhead let out a wordless cry and thrust his hands into the fire, trying to put it out, trying to save them but the flames burned hotter and hotter and his hands screamed in agony until! Cicero woke gasping, dagger in hand and scream just behind his tongue. Wide red eyes darted about the room like something wild and it took him a few long moments to settle his breathing and calm himself. It had been weeks since he’d had that dream and the addition of Claret had been particularly unsettling. He couldn’t quite get his heart to slow down, which was odd since until a little under a week ago, he had been fairly certain that vampires were dead. 

His muscles were stiff and sore from sleeping with his head pillowed on his folded arms, no doubt funny creases on his face from where the leather of his gloves were raised here and there. He felt himself go very still, even his heart stilling in his chest, his breath ceasing as he felt the room around him. He was still trying to get used to the sensation and it was very involuntary. It were as though he had this barrier, an aura of sorts hovering a breath away from his skin that he could...flex and push out with and it would fill the room, giving him a vague picture of the space in his head, specifically the living things in the area. It was almost like shifting a muscle in his shoulders or stretching, or even yawning. The action was instinctive and loosely linked to fight or flight. He was fairly sure that he could do it intentionally, but he hadn’t quite figured out how. 

The Inn was quiet and still, save for the heat of the fire in the main hearth that he could feel in his head as though he’d reached his hands out to warm them, even though it was in the other room. All of the occupants were lying in beds, their hearts measured and sleeping. He could tell that just from one small flex of that aura. It was a powerful feeling, one that whispered of possibilities. Cicero could even feel Mother, cool and powerful in her coffin. That was surprising and actually extremely comforting. She felt like a deep and endless sea, dark, bottomless, and tranquil compared to the warm, quick and almost frantic living people sleeping around him. And yet, there was something very very wrong. Where was Dove?   
He stood, moving much faster than was probably acceptable for mortal standards and paced to her bed. His throat constricted with a sudden concern. Yes his beautiful little Dove was independent and perfectly capable of taking care of herself in most situations, however, he was quite surprised to see that she had not returned to rest. Her scent had faded from the room long ago and there was nothing of her belongings save for the bags that contained their extra supplies, rations, the tent, bedrolls, spare cloaks, cookware and so on. Dread welled up in his chest. 

No. She probably was just off on some other errand for the Jarl! His silly girl was always helping people! Yes, that was it! She’d gone to help the town more and left Cicero in the safety of the Inn to recover from the whole vampire incident. She was extremely protective of him, after all. He was sure that she would be back any moment now to fall into his arms and let him hold her close! Except, she wouldn’t do that. No. She was afraid of him now. The red head sat gracelessly on her vacant bed and let out a long sigh. His face dropped into his soft gloves, fingers clutching lightly at the follicles of his hair. He’d hurt her. Badly. He knew that and yet he hadn’t really had much of a choice at the time. That bastard vampire wouldn’t have believed him if he hadn’t done his best acting and Cicero was VERY good at acting. It had been one of the things that had made him one of the best assassins. He could fall fully into a role or personality at the drop of a hat. He let people hear what they wanted to hear, what they expected and in turn, they did as he wanted and predicted. 

And his acting had done exactly as intended. It had convinced everyone in the room, including Dove. He hadn’t been able to send her any sort of reassurances or tells because he had needed her reaction, needed her emotions to be very apparent to put a firm wall between them and fool their captors. Cicero could not risk attacking the coven and getting them killed without knowing the numbers, the exits, the potential threats. He was cautious and very methodical by nature. Being anything less than that would have been fatal or would have lost the body of the Night Mother ages ago. He never took uncalculated risks. 

And he had known going into it that she was going to be upset with him for it. She was likely going to question their every interaction from then on as well. That was upsetting, but he understood. Dove took great care in who she trusted. It was an instinct that survivors developed. He often wondered what she had survived to make her so reserved toward people. Not that he was complaining, oh no! Quite the opposite! No her reservations were very very good, especially for a possible assassin. It would keep her alive. His chest grew warm and proud at the thought of being able to train her, mold her into the perfect killer. His beautiful Dove would be spectacular, he knew. Yes, oh even just in the few times they had killed together he could see it. She thirsted for death and blood just as much as any assassin. 

His mind drifted , losing himself to the thought of her small, deft hands, her lithe little body that while still soft, was wondrous to behold in a fight. She was violent and forceful, a maelstrom that demanded attention on the field with a presence that made her seem giant, dangerous. Yes she was very, very dangerous. He felt his body react as it always did when he thought of her like that, relieved that he still apparently had basic functions still, despite the changes. 

He was rather surprised. There was no ravenous, gnawing hunger or thirst for blood after he’d drank from Claret earlier, no savage need to tear apart anything alive. Yes he could feel the desire to hunt those around him, but no more than he usually did. There was just an added incentive that hadn’t been there before. The people sleeping were tempting in a lot of ways. He could honor his Father by killing them in all manner of ways and sending them to the void. And he would enjoy it. It was the act, not specifically the victim that made killing enjoyable. The feeling of cutting and stabbing in just the right places, the knowledge that he could kill a person of any race in hundreds of different ways and do so with ease, there was nothing more powerful or satisfying. And for the past several years killing had become a rare treat, a guilty pleasure that he only allowed himself when there was no other options available. 

He had been stripped of his ability to take on contracts and as such, his ability to kill on a whim. No, Mother’s safety and comfort came first. Always. And so he stuck to that decision, killing only when Mother or his own safety was threatened and instead took to envisioning all of the unique ways that he would kill the people he came across if they had been a job or a threat. He made it into a teasing game of temptation. And because of this, the act of killing after denying such ingrained impulses was a euphoric, nearly sexual release. His body would sing all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes and he could just imagine Mother’s pleased voice at a fine kill. It was an intimate act, taking someone’s life, even out of anger or hate, though he very rarely killed for either reason. Movarth had died for both, and so much more. 

Cicero stood then, snagging cleaning supplies from his bag and slipping from the room, locking it tight. He went purposefully to the bathing rooms, bolting the door behind him and stoking the embers beneath the large water kettle. Claret had looked so surprised at his strength when he’d killed the vampire. It would have been very funny had she not been hurt by him, he was certain. He was easily as strong, if not stronger than she was and that was exciting. Not for the first time, he thought back to their first night together, when he’d nearly killed her and she had noticed him, bested him. Sithis, what he would do for the chance to fight her now. He loved the idea of the two of them with just their daggers, playing a little game with one another, slicing off each other’s clothing with deliberate, precise strikes. 

She would make the first cut, obviously, ladies first! And his Dove was shy. She would aim for his shirt. Cicero sliced through the thick cloth with his claws, nicking his pale skin intentionally as he tore through the left sleeve at the shoulder. The fabric parted and sagged and he let out a little huff, losing himself in his daydream. He was not so shy, no he was daring and very rotten. He would slice down the center of her neckline in a quick, unpredictable motion that would cause the top of her dress to part wide between her small, perky breasts. She’d hiss and growl before setting those narrowed, hungry eyes on him and strike again. He sliced diagonally across his chest then, leaving a shallow cut from shoulder to hip and tossed the remains of the shirt aside.   
And then! He would goad her, tease her for being afraid of seeing him naked while slashing a long cut high up to her thigh that exposed her tanned skin and toned leg. She’d turn angry red, embarrassed and cute with that determined set to her lips and move with her inhuman speed to pin him to the wall, running the dagger up his inner thigh while growling in his ear. Cicero shucked his pants and small clothes quickly, palming himself needily as he imagined that she would hold him, hands clumsy yet determined. His beautiful, clever Dove would bite and nip at his throat and shoulders, run her fingers and tongue over the cuts on his chest and his nipples, claim every inch of him as hers. Yes, oh how he wanted to be hers! His hand pumped along his length, head falling back with a thump against the wall. His muscles tensed, heat coiling tighter and tighter low in his abdomen as he remembered her tying him to the tree and having her way with him, the taste of her hot blood in his mouth and the delicious sounds she had made when he’d drank from her.

That was the thought that took him over the edge, the visceral, vibrant memory of how her blood surged through him like a combination of adrenaline and fire, with her sweet taste and scent all around him, her hips pressed down over his. He came hard, stifling a cry of her name with a bare hand. When he could see again, he breathed out a long contented sigh. His Dove was all that he needed. If she stayed with him, he was sure that he could endure anything, even never finding the Listener. He cleaned up his mess and set about bathing, letting the hot water soothe away any remaining tension in his relaxing muscles. He took his time, not in any rush. He was certain that he would hear Dove when she returned or if anyone was tampering with their room. 

That was going to take some getting used to. His hearing was already fairly good to begin with, but this new, amplified hearing was mind boggling. He could hear the sound of the floorboards settling, the crackle of embers in the main room, even the sounds of armor clanking across pavestones outside of the Inn. Probably the city guard patrolling. He was not complaining. He hated silence. Cicero dried himself and dressed in a fresh motley, tossing away the remains of the one he’d ruined in his little fantasy and returned to the room. He stowed aside his belongings and strapped on his weapons. He needed to find Dove. Stewing in his thoughts was never good and it would be an opportunity to adjust to his senses more. 

The new vampire moved through town silently, forcing himself to slow down and walk like he usually would. It took effort, a lot more than he had expected and it was distracting enough to keep him from focusing too much on the lingering dread in the back of his mind. It was the middle of the night, so he doubted that anyone would be awake to answer his questions, but he couldn’t sit and wait for her. He was too active, too antsy, too worried. Cicero just needed the affirmation that his Dove was safe and would be back soon. He was pretty surprised to see an older nord awake and outside, baling large forkfulls of straw into a stable not far from the Jarl’s long house. The man looked like he was still just waking up, sweat beading on his bald head and yawns fighting to escape him every few moments.

Cicero tilted his head and wandered over, both curious and hopeful. 

“Excuse me, sir!” He called smile in place on his jovial features. He really hoped that his eyes weren’t red. The horsemaster jolted, startled by the sudden voice nearby and whirled. He gave Cicero a baffled and suspicious look, quirking an eyebrow at him. Cicero got that look a lot.

“You startled me, stranger,” The man began, looking reasonably cautious for someone that had been approached in the early hours of the morning. 

“Ah Cicero is very sorry for intruding, but he is so very worried for his companion and wonders if perhaps you’ve seen her! About my size, long white hair, very hard to miss?” The redhead asked, trying to look as harmless as possible as he clung to the top rung of the fence. The man’s eyes lit with recognition and he relaxed instantaneously. 

“Ah! You are the Thane’s companion, Cicero! Yes, she spoke quite highly of you!” The man beamed and even over the sounds and scents of the animals in the barn behind him, Cicero could hear the man’s heart rate slow and relax. 

“She honors, unworthy Cicero. But please, have you seen where she went? I had thought that she would return to the Inn to rest but I’ve not seen her at all since we returned from the vampire lair and I am worried for her,” Cicero asked again, bottling up the urge to butcher the man for wasting his time. He needed the man alive to tell him where Dove went. 

“That’s strange. She seemed quite fond of you, Surprised that she left without telling you,” The horsemaster puzzled rubbing the back of his neck. “ She bought some tack and a saddle for the horse that I gave her for avenging my daughter, loaded it all up and headed out of town early yesterday. Maybe she plans to come back soon? She mentioned something about climbing a mountain.” 

Cicero had gone very still again as he choked on his own breath. His heart hurt like something was squeezing it in a large fist. He steadied himself on the fence and tried to keep from panicking. She was gone. She had LEFT him. Gone. Alone! A pained breath eased out of him and he swallowed, licking his lips nervously. He had to get himself under control. But he could not. Dove had abandoned him! 

“Are you alright, friend? Here, have a seat,” He let the man approach and lead him to a chair on the porch, barely hearing the words over the static in his ears and the thudding of his heart. “Cicero, breathe with me lad. You are having a panic attack. Focus on my voice alright lad, you’re alright. Your friend is alright.”

Cicero blinked rapidly, couldn’t get enough air, his lungs shuddered and heaved and he focused as hard as he could on the big nord’s voice and crouched form before him. He breathed in as deep as he could and held it, forcing himself to let it out slow.

“That’s it lad, deep, easy breaths. Don’t worry about anything else right now, just breathe and let yourself calm down. We’ll get everything sorted after you are alright,” The horsemaster continued, knowing better than to touch the redhead anymore and treating him very much like a wild animal or a new horse. Cicero shivered and continued to listen, trying to grab hold of his control again, but it was hard. He had to! Mother demanded it. He could feel her even far out from the Inn, her cold energy shifted it’s attention to him and he could feel it when it happened. She knew he was upset, knew that he needed help! He felt a caress through his hair that was motherly and comforting and nearly cried. Mother! He could feel mother! He still couldn’t hear her, no, she wouldn’t speak. But she comforted poor Cicero! 

He blinked up at the nord, almost forgetting where he was for a moment. 

“Ah. Forgive Cicero. That hasn’t happened in a very long time,” He confessed and the big man shook his head with a smile. 

“Nah nothing to forgive, lad. My brother used to have panic attacks often when he was shook up, I’m only glad I was able to help a little. I should apologize for setting it off,” The horsemaster added. 

“It’s just… she promised. She promised we’d be together, at least until we reached Falkreath and she left. I know that when we were in the lair that I scared her. She tried to keep me from going with her, we fought. Cicero was hurt badly because he had gone after her anyway and my sweet Dove blames herself,” Cicero found himself babbling to the other man that eased himself into a second chair next to Cicero. 

“Sounds like she was just trying to keep you safe,” The nord commented. 

“She is afraid of vampires,” Cicero added and the nord chuckled.

“Who isn’t? She’s a brave lass, charging in there anyway like that. She must love you a great deal, lad.” the bald man remarked and Cicero’s eyes rounded and his heart fluttered in his chest like a trapped bird. 

“W-what?” He stammered. 

“Look lad, I’ve been alive a long time. It isn’t everyday that you find a woman willing to do what she has to to keep a man safe and risk her life doing it. Sounds like she got spooked when you were hurt and went on her own to keep it from happening again,” The mortal reasoned. And it made sense. But love? Cicero’s mind raced, pouring over their every interaction. She was shy with him but not with anyone else, playful, protective even when she was trying very hard to keep a distance there. Dove kept him alive when she didn’t have to multiple times, kept him warm and safe and watched over him even when she really didn’t need to. She went out of her way to make him smile, and seemed to understand his need for secrets.   
“Dove...loves me.” He murmured as his heart squeezed tighter in his chest. And yet she left. The nord clapped him on the shoulder with a grin.

“A woman like that is worth waiting on, Cicero, even if she hasn’t gotten her head together yet. If it were me, I’d head down to anyplace she mentioned the two of you going together. Maybe she’ll turn up if you give her time. Skyrim women are a bit like the cold wind. You can’t force them to do anything they don’t want to do and they’ll chill your bones and toss you to the ground if you try, but if you let them go as they will and move with them, they’ll carry you along and take your breath away,” The horsemaster recited with a fond grin. 

“Right. What is your name?” Cicero asked.

“Roland,” The nord answered. Cicero smiled softly.

“Thank you, Roland,” Cicero replied, and he felt the smile on his face grow even wider. He had a dagger in the man’s gut and a hand over his mouth before the nord could so much as blink at him. Adrenaline and hunger hit him hard at once and the redhaired jester licked his lips with a chuckle. 

“You could very well be right. My sweet, precious little Dove could very well be concerned for my safety. But you know, Cicero thinks there may be just a bit more to it,” He mused at the struggling man whose eyes had gone impossibly wide in pain and fear and confusion. The Imperial dragged the man off the porch and hopped the gate in a small bound, letting the poor man smack the ground on the other side before continuing into the barn. The horses stirred, letting out whinnies of unease at the scent of the vampire. 

“Now, let’s try this again shall we? Where did my Dove go, Roland? For every lie you tell me, I’ll break a bone in your body. Now speak,” He demanded, uncovering the man’s mouth. A yell of agony was all that met his ears and Cicero gleefully snapped the man’s right shin. More screams left the nord as he curled around his leg. Cicero listened to the man breathing fast and hard. Every breath was practically saturated with pain. 

“Speak Roland, Cicero can’t hear you. Speak and this all stops now. You are going to die, Roland. I am going to kill you. You get to choose how long it takes me to do it. All that I need is an answer. Where is my lover? Where did she go? Tell me and I make it all stop hurting,” Cicero cooed and he felt that instinctive flex of energy again only this time, it affected his voice. He compelled the man to tell him, willed the nord to give him everything he knew about Dove. “You miss your family don’t you? All of them have moved on to Sovngarde without you and left you alone to this pointless existence. You are lonely and have only the horses for companionship. Don’t you want to be with your family again, Roland, to hold you wife and child and grandchild again?” 

Roland’s face had gone nearly slack, eyes wide and mouth working to respond. He seemed to flounder for a moment, pain completely forgotten.

“Yes, I miss them,” His voice was distant and slow. Cicero smiled.

“Tell me where the white haired woman called Dove went, Roland and you can be with your family again,” He cooed and the big man teared up, eyes staring off at some distant memory. And then his eyes narrowed, the fog cleared and Roland spat at Cicero’s feet.

“I’ll join them, but not with the shame of giving that girl to a monster like you!” He hissed and Cicero sighed and shrugged. That was just fine with him too. The red haired man tortured the horsemaster for a very long hour before the poor man bled to death. The nord hadn’t said a word, only glared at the vampire defiantly and stifled his cries of pain. Cicero had to admit a grudging respect for the man despite not getting the information that he wanted. It was that respect that kept Cicero from just ending it quickly. If Roland was strong enough to look a gruesome, painful, slow death in the face and not flinch, than Cicero couldn’t either. The man deserved that much; deserved to fight until the very end. 

Cicero returned to the Inn, bathed and locked himself in his room. He curled up in Dove’s bed and wept until his tears and the soothing caress of Mother’s energy sent him back to sleep with a deep, painful ache in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be more chapters showing Cicero's time away from Dove, learning how to be a vampire in the future as well. Hope that you enjoyed it. <3 I felt like we needed to see a little more of how "evil" he is.


	15. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claret tries to apologize in her own way and spends some quality time with the family.

Fifteen

It had taken her a long time to get her heart out of her throat after the giant of a man had vanished and left her shivering almost violently in the middle of nowhere. Her skin ached everywhere that he had touched her, spasms from his left over energy tickling through her muscles in a way that was unnerving and yet not wholly unpleasant. That was easily the most terrifying encounter that she’d had to date and this was a woman that talked to dragons on a semi regular basis. Her breath left her in a harsh woosh of air and she flopped gracelessly onto the soft grass that surrounded the edges of the now bloodied water. What sort of fucked up nightmare had her life become when Daedric Princes of all things were vying for her hand? She looked down at the ring that she had given up trying to remove with scorn. It felt like him. That was what this sensation was. That energy that had overwhelmed her when he had appeared and touched her encased the metal like some sort of enchantment. The energy was hot and wild and almost itched up her finger and into the bones of her palm and arm. 

And if she focused just right on it, she could feel a heartbeat that wasn’t her own. It was unnerving as all hell. She’d avoided becoming fully entangled with Vaermina by stubbornly fighting off the crazy woman’s demands and Hircine had trapped her in his clutches without doing a Talos damned thing. It was fucking humiliating. Bastard. Not that he was out of the area she could breathe and rage at him without feeling like she was going to collapse. She had a feeling that he had been holding back his energy and that thought was terrifying. But why did he have an interest in her at all? 

That was a foolish question and she knew it. She was Ysmir, for one. Dragons, even ones trapped in mortal form were very powerful in many ways. They attracted the attention of all, unfortunately. Claret wasn’t able to tell how serious he had been about his so called proposal, if it could really be called that at all. He hadn’t proposed. He’d just expected her to be his simply because some terrified idiots had called her his. Ass. Granted, technically she was his to an extent, being a werewolf. She was working herself up into a angry fit and was about to start tearing grass up in her frustration when she noticed that once again, she was not alone. 

A wolf stared at her, looking amused at the baffled expression on the small woman’s features. It’s bright green eyes were highly intelligent, assessing, and smug. It had snuck up on her and she hadn’t heard or smelt a thing. Well, she was a little distracted and the clearing reeked of blood and grosser things. It held something large in its jaws and she watched in surprise as the long legged beast picked its way over to her. Black fur covered the whole of it, save for a diagonal slash of white that crossed its eyes from left to right. The wolf was large, muscular, and definitely not your typical Skyrim wolf. The creature sat almost daintily next to Claret and placed the bundle of cloth it held on the ground between them. 

“I assume this is from that asshole, Hircine,” She stated and was a little startled when the green eyed animal huffed out something close to a laugh, tongue lolling out and white fangs showing in its mirth. Upon closer inspection, Claret curiously noted that the wolf had horns. They jutted out from beside the wolf’s ears, black and pointed, only about eight inches long. It was subtle, but now that she noticed them, she could not stop staring. The wolf sobered and gave her a critical, suffering stare, as if daring the woman to say anything negative about them.

“Are all of his gifts leashes?” She asked a little bitterly and the wolf huffed another laugh, looking up at her in appreciation. The creature’s eyes crinkled in a smile before it nudged at the bundle it’d brought. Claret sighed. 

“So he will leave me be then? Stop showing up to court me or whatever he is trying to do?” She asked, hesitantly unwrapping the armor inside. 

The she wolf yawned widely and gave her the closest thing to a shrug that a wolf could give. Claret let her hands trace over the intricately carved breastplate. The face of a wolf had been detailed into the steel, thick white wolf fur trimming it. It looked revealing and it hummed under her fingers with enchantment. It was beautiful. Her own armor was more than a little worse for wear and she did need a new set to wear when not wearing her shrouded armor. 

The little warning voice in her head that she was making this too easy for Hircine was pushed aside by her practicality. Hircine was a god. Or something. If he had wanted, he could have crushed her with his pinky finger ages ago. And for the moment, he was pleased with her. So why look a gift...wolf in the mouth? So with no small amount of trepidation, she strapped on the armor. It fit perfectly, better than any armor she’d ever worn and that was a bit unnerving. The neckline was low, plunging down between her breasts and contouring to her subtle curves. Thick, soft fur lined the top and hung off of her shoulders to circle around behind her back . A loin cloth of chain, leather and more white fur dangled to just above her knees and left her legs free for movement. A pair of boots and gauntlets of matching materials stopped at her knees and elbows respectively. The final item in the bundle was a thick, water resistant cloak, black and lined with more of the white fur on the inside and about the hood. 

“And what about you?” Claret asked, raising a brow and turning to look down at the daedric wolf only to blink in surprise. Of course it was gone. 

The white haired woman sighed yet again. Now she had a long trek back to the inn. She wasn’t really willing to sleep at all, so she set out through the forest fully intending to head back to her horse and then to gather materials for fixing the cave wall. That sounded like an excellent idea. Forget entirely about everything that just happened and pretend that she hadn’t gathered yet another Daedric stalker. Of course, Hircine had a much more appealing method of trying to sway the werewolf than Vaermina had. The armor was fantastic, even if she had to be a bit careful of flashing the world her unmentionables. Hell maybe she could use that as a distraction.

She grimaced as she plodded along through the forest. Claret knew that once again, she was just trying to avoid thinking about the real issues. Yes Hircine was a...problem, maybe? But really, she had just latched onto the excuse to not think about how upset Cicero had been to see her. He had seemed extremely put off by her presence in the sanctuary. Did he not want her to be part of the family? Oh no, of course not. He was perfectly fine with her being some little tart for him to play about with but the moment that she had any association with his family, she was suddenly off limits. That bullshit about the Keeper wasn’t making the white haired woman any happier either. It sounded like he was just looking for excuses to not forgive her; excuses to keep her back out at arm's length. She really couldn’t blame him. She’d done the same thing, or tried to anyway. The infectious little bastard hadn’t let her. With a determined frown Claret drew herself up to her full height. She could only offer him the same courtesy, she supposed. 

By the time that Claret had arrived back at the sanctuary again, most of the family was getting into bed for the morning. She had decided to gather materials in the early morning light for patching CIcero’s room. It was around noon when she was carrying two large sacks of stuff down into the main room when she nearly bumped right into the man. He fidgeted, refusing to look at her directly and feeling a little malicious, Claret ran one of her sharpened nails over her left palm, feeling the skin part in a shallow cut. The scent of blood was sharp in the stairwell and her eyes never left him as his body tensed. He tried to resist inhaling, she could see the restraint in the set of his shoulders, the pulsing of the vein in his neck. Red eyes fixed on her then as though he wanted to eat her alive and there was a rage tinting them that had a satisfied coil of pleasure curling in her belly. 

She lifted her palm to her lips, letting her stare settle on his and languidly ran her tongue over the tiny wound, purring growl softly falling from her. His tongue darted across his own lips in a nervous gesture and she could smell his want. Her mouth curled in a small smile and then she left him there, sauntering off with her supplies and not even a backward glance. Claret felt his stare all the way across the room to the back hall and it took every ounce of her self control to not laugh like an idiot. She wasn’t going to let him ignore her. It was childish and petty and probably stupid. But she didn’t care. He was hers. He just needed to be reminded. 

Claret set herself to work on his room, pushing all of the furniture out of the way save for a tall chair that she used to reach the hole. The work was slow and meticulous, but she didn’t mind. This was for him and he deserved the effort. It took her a good three hours to patch the holes and another two to repair the old fireplace in the back of the room. Her hands were dried out and caked in clay, not wanting to ruin any gloves working on it. She hated the feeling of it beneath her clawed nails, but as she surveyed her rough work, the werewolf felt a bit better about the tiredness and the ache in her fingertips. The white haired woman started a fire in the fireplace to start chasing away the chill in the back room before righting the furniture and gathering up her tools. 

Cicero had yet to appear again and she was thankful. Getting caught would have been pretty embarrassing. She tossed the equipment under her bed and trudged off to bathe, wanting to remove the dirt and sweat before crawling into bed. She was leaning back under the small waterfall in the main room when he strode down the main steps from the entrance. Her hands raked through her hair, scrubbing away soap as she stood on a flat stone beneath the falling water. Cicero looked a bit like he had swallowed his tongue as he watched her. She looked malnourished, her ribs showing far too much through her wet skin as she stretched. He tried very hard to ignore the concern that flared in his gut over the want that her nude form stirred in him. He forced himself to leave the room and silently head toward his chambers to escape the temptation. 

No, he was angry with her, he couldn’t just give in and ravish her just because she had no modesty whatsoever. She was cheating! He blinked about his room then, noting the distinct lack of uncomfortable holes and cobwebs. The crackle of the hearth and orange light made the room homey as opposed the the cold, unwelcoming cell it had been when he left earlier. Her light scent lingered like a faint perfume and it took a great deal of effort on his part to force the smile from his face. He dropped onto his bed with a sigh and he just couldn’t keep it from resurfacing and curling the corners of his mouth as his chest filled with a giddy warmth. Perhaps things weren’t quite so awful after all. 

Claret woke to quiet giggles. She stirred, blinking up at Babette and Gabriella’s grinning faces. That was moderately terrifying to wake up to, she thought. Blearily, the white haired woman sat up and stared. Her eyes widened considerably as her brain began to process exactly what she was looking at. A very large platter took up the whole of the nightstand beside her bed, loaded with fruits and cheeses, grilled fish, sweetrolls and wine. A small bouquet of death bells and lilies rested on the pillow near her head. 

“Someone has an admirer,” Gabriella drawled teasingly. Claret gave her a dirty look and took a bite out of a sweet roll, earning a laugh from the dark elf. Babette hopped up to sit next to the white haired woman, looking about as innocent as a cat in a pigeon coop. 

“Who could it be, dear sister?” She asked Gabriella, while grinning cheekily at Claret. The white haired woman rolled her eyes with a laugh around her treat. They were ridiculous. 

“Hmm, who indeed?” The dark elf pondered, tapping a neatly manicured nail to her lips with a playful twinkle in her dark eyes as she took up a seat on Claret’s other side. Claret swallowed her mouthful and with the straightest face she could manage, cleared her throat.

“Festus, clearly,” She stated and both of the lady assassins beside her broke into near hysterics, leaning into each other and Claret grinned at them. The white haired woman wasn’t entirely sure, but based on the number of sweetrolls on the the tray, she thought that perhaps, Cicero had paid her a little visit while she slept. At least, she hoped so? She hid her smile behind her treat, half listening as Babette and Gabriella listed off potential candidates and why. Their theories became more and more silly, and before long, Claret was too full of food and drink and the three of them were clutching their stomachs from laughing too much. 

They left her then to go about their own business and reluctantly, Claret rose to her feet, stretching away the lethargy brought on by too much food. Bleah. But, if it had been a gift from Cicero, she hadn’t wanted to waste it. Her stomach was not used to so much and she dressed in a comfortable dress that touched her ankles and slipped on some boots before lazily wandering out into the main hall. Nazir greeted her with a nod, on his way to bed. She’d managed to get her schedule completely reversed in all of the madness. Astrid was waiting for her with Arnbjorn near the forge. The white haired woman smiled at her boss while completely ignoring the large man. He frowned. Claret smiled more. 

“ There you are, sister. Come, walk with me. We haven’t gotten a chance to speak much these last few days,” The blond nord said happily, and Claret nodded, offering her arm to the other woman dramatically, earning a snort from the typically serious assassin and a scoff from her husband. Astrid must have been in a good mood because she went with it, looping her arm through the smaller female’s and guiding the two of them off toward the entrance. When the door closed behind them, Astrid let out an amused chuckle, “Still giving him the silent treatment and trying to get on his nerves, are we?”

“It’s Arn. Breathing gets on his nerves,” Claret snarked with a chuckle.

“True. But I really hope that this little feud between the two of you settles itself soon. We’re family. I know that the situation between the two of you is special because of what you are, but truly, he never intended his actions as anything other than business. It bothers him that he’s hurt you, Dove,” Astrid said soothingly and the werewolf believed her. The shorter woman sighed.

“I know. It’s hard. And complicated. He was part of of something bigger than all of us and even as an exile, there are laws, lines that we do not cross. I am not going to be able to hold off my wolf for much longer,” Claret admitted and the blonde stiffened, suddenly looking extremely concerned. Claret pulled the both of them to a stop atop a low rise not far from the sanctuary and took both of Astrid’s upper arms with warm, gentle hands, “ He is your mate and you love him. I understand what that means. I am not going to kill him. You have my word. But he is a werewolf, like me and both of us are run by things that aren’t civilized and that don’t understand anything beyond power, blood, and Hircine. No matter how much we hide it.”

“ Help me understand,” The blonde woman demanded, and looking at her, I could tell that she was genuinely afraid for Arnbjorn. She very much should be. I nodded. She deserved to know what to expect, to know what could happen and what I would make sure that her husband survived. The two of us sat among the leaves atop a flat rock that had been warmed by beams of sunlight filtering through the dense trees. 

“Wolves and Werewolves are run by similar instincts. Food, territory, pups, and fucking, in that order. There is a pecking order with both. Alphas lead the pack, betas act as a second in command. These roles are both genetic and earned. Werewolves take things a step further. Because we are technically daedric creatures, and of course because anything a daedric lord messes with has to be brutal and full of magic bullshit, we have something of a shared mind that connects us,” Claret began and as expected, Astrid’s brows scrunched in confusion.

“Connects you how exactly?” She asked, of course. This was always the difficult thing to explain with weres. 

“We call it the Pack. It doesn’t just stand for a group of us living and working together. We are literally connected through a bond, a magically infused link that marks us as family and that allows us to communicate on a deeper level. Our essence, magic, aura, whatever that wild thing inside of us that makes us a wolf, when joined with the Pack, can do many important things such as feeling where the rest of the pack is when hunting, feeling when a packmate is in trouble if we are close-by, being able to share pain and lessen wounds, and so much more. It’s like being able to feel, for example, the Brotherhood all the time in the back of your mind. Not our voices, just our presence letting you know we are with you always. It’s safety and love and trust,” The werewolf stated, picking apart a dead leaf a little at a time to give her hands something to do while she spoke.

“That actually sounds...wonderful, really,” Astrid replied, voice colored with surprise and Claret smiled.

“It is. However, there is another side to it. We are run by instinct, the need to hunt and without an Alpha to control the pack, it doesn’t function. The Alpha is the source of the bond. The stronger the alpha, the more power that the pack can share through the bond. Alphas can be challenged at any time for leadership and if a wolf is found to be stronger and more dominant than the current alpha, be it through natural talent or gained power and skill, they become the new alpha. Arnbjorn gave away secrets about the pack to a non pack member resulting in the death of my former alpha. As far as the pack is concerned, he should die for that. He is considered a stray, a mutt because he is a lone wolf and he can’t be controlled and he allowed a non werewolf to murder an alpha. Even if he is an accessory, he is still at fault. Business means nothing to the wolf. She wants to punish him and if I don’t give her something, eventually, she is going to take control,” The white haired woman continued, mouth settled into a grim line. She took a breath before adding, “ It is all about dominance. We are not connected. Two loners sharing the same space, especially ones with blood hanging in the air, it will end in a fight.”

Astrid sighed, rubbing her temples. 

“We can set rules and terms at the start, if that helps. Also as I am sure you’ve noticed, as long as it isn’t silver, we heal fairly quickly from wounds. And both of us are experienced enough to keep it from being non lethal. That is all that I can guarantee. Anything else would be an empty promise. And trust me, he is probably itching to tear into me as well. Two wolves that haven’t tested their dominance against one another can’t stay near each other without fighting to find out who the bigger monster is,” The white haired woman added softly. 

“So what you are saying is that one of you needs to be found as alpha, to form this Pack that connects you through whatever power werewolves hold,” Astrid paraphrased and CLaret nodded.

“To become Pack, to share in the bond and the power it offers, a were must submit to the Alpha and mean it. It is a bloody and spiritual ritual only overshadowed by a mating bond in terms of power. Has Arn given you one?” Claret asked and Astrid blinked owlishly at the white haired woman. 

“He’s never even mentioned such a thing,” Astrid admitted, brows furrowing. 

“He may not be able to do it. It’s possible that he may need the power of the Pack to have enough spiritual energy to do it. I only know one pair that has done it and both of them are wolves, so I am not sure what the effects will be on a human entirely,” Claret reasoned, tapping at her lower lip as she raked through her mind for any information that she could remember. 

“What exactly is it? I assume it is something like marriage?” The blue eyed nord asked, looking like some shining goddess in the dappled sunlight. 

“Sort of. It is everything that the pack bond is and more. You can pull from each other’s strengths. It is a deeper connection. Dream sharing is also supposed to be possible. Your souls mark each other and it is permanent,” The werewolf explained, “I don’t know a lot about it because the pair I know are very private about it.” 

The two of them settled into a tense silence as Astrid seemed to digest the information, staring off into the woods that was filled with birdsong. 

“I would prefer that the two of you settle this as soon as possible,” Astrid commented quietly after a long moment and Claret agreed with a nod, earning grateful smile from her superior, “ Good. Tonight then?”

“Alright. We will need to use the main room. The cave muffles sounds and I don’t want us drawing attention. Falkreath already had a werewolf scare recently and they are all up at arms about it because he escaped,” Claret muttered and Astrid huffed softly. 

“Arnbjorn had mentioned scenting another wolf in the area that wasn’t you,” Astrid confirmed thoughtfully, “ I’ve gone my entire life without seeing any other than Arnbjorn and suddenly you are all popping up like mushrooms after rain.”

“You probably run into more weres than you think. Only the strays tend to be obvious,” Claret remarked with a grin. A suddenly wicked smirk crossed Astrid’s lips then and Claret had a feeling that she was about to be teased. 

“Speaking of obvious, you must tell me what is going on between you and our dear Keeper,” The blonde practically spat the word dear. Claret felt her eyebrows tick up toward her hairline in surprise. I’d gotten the feeling that Astrid was less than thrilled about Cicero, but there was a revulsion in the woman’s hard stare that spoke of something close to hate. Interesting. Claret very carefully ignored the protective urges that threatened to spill into her expression and body language. Something in the back of her thoughts held her back, warned her to be cautious. Astrid was testing her. Claret made this half whined groan and flopped back onto the rock behind her gracelessly. 

“I think he hates my guts,” She huffed, covering her face with both hands. Astrid let out a genuine laugh, the sound rich and bell like.

“Oh sister, if you saw the way his eyes watch you when you aren’t looking, you’d know that he feels very much the opposite,” The taller woman crooned in a sing song tone and Claret peered up at her through her fingers, screwing her face up in disbelief. 

“Pfff, I wouldn’t doubt if he were just contemplating all of the wonderful ways he’d like to murder me,” She grumbled. It was likely true. Granted, for Cicero that was likely foreplay but Astrid didn’t need to know that. Or rather, she didn’t need to know that Claret knew that about Cicero. Or something. Claret huffed, “ I somehow offended him and so I tried to do something nice to make it up for him. I patched the holes in his room and cleaned it up a bit while he was out. I doubt it did any good. He seems pretty… set in his ways.”

“Yes, the old ways,” Astrid scoffed angrily. She flopped down beside Claret to stare up at the trees, voice softer, “ I grew up in the Brotherhood, was raised by the tenants and the Black hand, all of it. After murdering my uncle I had made a vow that no one would command me or use me again. But I suffered through those years of scraping and serving my supposed betters until I rose high enough into the ranks to be made the leader of the sanctuary.

When my mentor died, I removed the tenants and the rules. The rules segregated us, made us less of a family, bred animosity. It was those very rules and the thirst for power that corrupted the family in the first place. We are a shadow of what we should be because like myself by my uncle, the family was mishandled and abused by the Black hand,” Her words were passionate, bitter, and almost righteous. Claret stared over at Astrid, at the clench of the other woman’s jaw and the blaze of her eyes. The blonde really believed that the downfall of the Brotherhood was the fault of the leadership. It was possible and even plausible. When any organization falls, it is the failure of its leaders that causes it. 

“I removed the ranks, the restrictions, the titles. There is now only my word. Not some group of Speakers and council, and definitely not some corpse and her puppet,” The words were so full of venom that it had the hair of Claret’s arms rising on end and her heart racing a little faster, “Cicero wants to return us to that structured cult that got everyone killed off. I have the utmost respect for the Night Mother and what she went through, but I will not allow her Jester to take us back down that path again. The Brotherhood needs a real Matron, not a dead woman in a box.”

Bile rose up in the back of Claret’s throat. Astrid seemed so very bitter about the whole situation. The white haired woman knew next to nothing about the infrastructure of the Brotherhood or the truth behind its demise. The history books said that it had been hunted and purged by Aldmeri Dominion, but not much else.

“Forgive me, the topic gets me a bit...heated,” Astrid sighed after a moment and Claret let out a bark of laughter.

“I couldn’t tell,” She snarked and Astrid halfheartedly smacked the other woman’s shoulder.

“I understand though,” Claret added softly, and she did. She didn’t think that she agreed, however. 

“Let’s talk about something happy; this whole Cicero thing just makes me so angry,” Astrid said, rolling to face Claret with an elbow propped beneath her head and her free arm stretched lewdly across the length of her side as though she were expecting to be painted. A genuine smile lit the woman’s features then, excitement dancing in her eyes, “ Tell me about your contract. We didn’t get to speak about it in detail since your return.”

“Sithis, it was embarrassing!” Claret hissed and Astrid snickered as a hot blush covered the other woman’s face.

“Oh do go on, you have my attention now,” The blonde pressed and Claret started from the beginning. She described the inn, casing the room to find Muiri and confronting her. Astrid’s attention was rapt as the werewolf described roasting the target alive while his men watched. She did not tell the woman that she had shouted the flames into existence to ignite the thick dwemer oils around the room. She did however, describe the screams and the fact that a few of them had pissed themselves. The blonde’s cackle was gratifying. Poisoning the extra target had been a casual half effort. Claret had sat up against the wall that their separate rooms shared listening to the nord woman choke on the poison crawling up her throat while reading happily over dinner. Astrid gave her a confused look, “ How was that embarrassing though?”

“That would be what you fixate on,” Claret stated dryly and the blonde laughed, gesturing for her to continue, “ Muiri tried to get me in bed afterward!”

Astrid stared for a full minute at the white haired woman that was gradually becoming redder and redder under the scrutiny. A very unladylike snort left the blonde and she burst into loud, uncontrolled cackles that had her curling in to hold her ribs that were threatening to shake apart in mirth. 

“You are probably the most naively innocent sociopath I have ever met!” She cackled and Claret pouted around a smile. It was nice to see the serious woman actually laugh about something, even if it was at her own expense, “ What did you do?”

“Made a tactical advance to the rear,” Claret answered and Astrid snickered behind her hand that had come up to cover her mouth.

“Muiri’s?” She asked sweetly between chuckles and Claret let out a strangled squeak of a sound and slapped a hand over her own face in mortification. The two of them bantered back and forth for a good while until the both of them were sore from laughing and feeling much better about the world in general. They returned to the sanctuary together and Claret caught Astrid’s arm gently.

“I swear that I won’t kill him,” She promised and Astrid gave her a sad, grateful smile before retiring to her room where the big man probably laid and likely heard said promise. Claret pushed the thought of Arnbjorn aside, not wanting to ruin her good mood and headed up the stairs. She planned to attempt to rest more so that she would be ready for whatever happened tonight, though she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to sleep. The white haired girl paused in front of the slightly open room that showcased the elegant stained glass relief of Sithis on one wall. Sudden nerves skittered through her belly and curious, she stepped inside. She’d briefly looked at the room when she’d first arrived, but hadn’t seen a real reason to return. It was set up similar to a temple hall, quiet stone walls carved with the utmost care with high arches toward the ceiling. The room had been cared for recently. The first time she’d seen it, the place had been a dump, an ignored spare room that smelt of stale flowers and dust. Someone had carefully righted the heavy stone benches, had swept and dusted, replaced moth eaten rags with elegantly woven tapestries of the Black hand and the symbol of Sithis in blood red and black along the walls. The room was quite dim, even compared to the low light of the rest of the cavernous sanctuary, with only a clustering of red candles spilling across the raised platform around the base of what had to be the largest, most imposing coffin, Claret had ever laid eyes on.

It was steel, carved with complex designs resembling bones and a relief of a skull. The coffin had been lovingly polished until the candlelight lapped brightly across its glinting surface. Large bouquets of nightshade and death bells rested in vases about the room, giving it a floral, almost homey scent with the faintest undertones of alchemy and death. It smelt a bit like Cicero, honestly. Which, she supposed, made since. He had to be the one that did all of this. Claret moved up through the pews, silently seating herself on one closest to the coffin while carefully tucking her long hair aside. 

She felt conflicted. Astrid had spoken of the Night Mother as though she were nothing but a symbol, a figurehead. Books and tales spoke of the woman as an unholy connection to Sithis, a proverbial goddess, a supernatural leader of the Brotherhood. Unease rolled in her gut. She had felt the presence of the dead woman herself on many occasions, too many to count really. And while she respected Astrid and what she believed in, Claret did not agree. The Night Mother was a real thing, and she wished that she could find a means of settling the unrest in the family. They were supposed to be a family. All of them. Claret rested her folded hands in her lap, eyes tracing over the shapes on the coffin as a strange peace settled over her. 

That otherworldly, spiritual presence made itself known, whispering through her hair gently and bringing a soft smile to the woman’s lips. At least she knew what to call the dead woman now. Night Mother. Sitting there under the soothing feel of that strange aura, the invisible hands that petted through her hair, Claret could understand why there had been a cult following around her. It was wonderful to feel loved. And she was. Claret could feel it in each movement of the presence. The Night Mother knew her and cared for her as one of her own. The white haired woman hadn’t realized there were tears rolling down her cheeks until slightly calloused thumbs brushed them aside. She gasped and her eyes fluttered open to stare into Cicero’s honey gaze. He was so close to her and she was baffled as to how he’d managed to sneak up without her noticing.

The vampire watched her with guarded eyes, expression neutral. He’d felt Mother’s aura shift and that had woken him. He’d panicked, thinking something was wrong at first until he’d all but burst into the room and spotted Claret sitting quietly and peacefully in the front row of the little temple. Mother’s aura had wound itself about her in a soothing embrace that he could see with the gift he’d been given. Darkness, power, languidly encased the small woman, holding her like a child. The scent of tears hit his senses sharply and he’d moved without thinking. Mother was comforting Claret, his Dove. He wondered if she could feel the Night Mother, if she knew how blessed she was. Cicero found himself staring into too bright, tear laced eyes and couldn’t find words. Her lips were parted slightly as she watched him with wide, disbelieving eyes. A couple years ago, he would have teased her for letting her guard down while he was around, would have kissed the tears from her cheeks and eyelids and buried himself in her scent until he couldn’t tell his from hers and her smile brought dimples to her face.

Instead he crouched there before her unmoving, not knowing what to do and unable to removed his hands from where they cupped her cheeks lightly with soft leather gloves. Painful feelings rolled about his insides like knives as he watched her watching him with just as much agony. Neither of them knew what to do about it. Her tongue darted out to run along her lowerlip and his eyes followed the motion with rapt attention. He wanted to chase after it with his own and mentally kicked himself for it. 

“Can you teach me about her?” She asked in a whisper that was thick with things neither of them seemed ready or willing to talk about. He caught another stray tear from her cheekbone, and his breath hitched. Claret knew. She could feel it, feel the Night Mother and that thought had him warming from the inside out like he’s swallowed a bonfire and his heart was dancing around it. 

“Yes,” He murmured, just as softly. Claret’s pupils blew out wide until the whole of her iris was nearly black with just a trace of blue green as they glanced down at his mouth so near her own and the heat in his gut magnified itself. 

“Will she forgive me for kicking Arnbjorn’s ass, do you think?” She asked and he let out a startled giggle, surprised at the strange question, but delighted at the thought of the dog being hurt. It was a good question though. They were both part of the Brotherhood and one of the Tenants clearly stated that one could not kill a brother or sister without the promise of punishment. His eyes took on a red tinge starting at the center closest to his pupil that took on a slitted appearance at the thought of punishing her. 

“Perhaps. As long as he isn’t killed and If it is deserved,” He answered. 

“Oh it is. Just maybe not from Brotherhood standards,” She stated and he chuckled darkly, thumb giving into temptation and rolling across her full lower lip slowly and the woman sucked in a soft breath.

“Oh, it is deserved from our standards as well,” He growled out, thinking on the foul insults slung every which way about the Night Mother from the idiot mutt. His eyes clouded over with that madness that liked to sneak up on him when he was feeling particularly emotional and Claret nuzzled into his fingers, turning to press a kiss into the center of his gloved palm. The heat of her mouth tingled through the thin layer of leather like a brand and he let out a soft, strangled sound in the back of his throat. 

“Still with me?” She asked softly and he swallowed hard. He still wanted her. Badly. But he was also hurting and angry. It was tearing him to pieces. The jester nodded, watching her like a mouse watches a cat as she fixed him with a knowing, calculating look that did wonderful things to him. She moved her face close to his, barely a whisper from his cheek to breathe into his ear, “I look forward to our lessons, My Keeper.”

The soft nip of teeth against the sensitive shell of his ear coupled with her soft voice that had dipped down an octave pulled a soft sound between a moan and a rumble from his throat and sent heat straight to all of the right places. And then she stood, moving around where he crouched to stand before the coffin. He watched her with wide eyes as she pressed a kiss to the surface of the coffin and whispered a light “goodnight mother,” before turning and striding calmly toward the door leading to the shared quarters. The white haired woman cast him a look that was all want before she vanished from sight. The red haired man let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and collapsed to sit where he was, staring dumbfounded at the spot the woman had been sitting in before. 

He was supposed to be angry with her! Cicero was supposed to make her suffer with longing for him and keep her at arm’s length, not the other way around! She was maddening! His indignation did nothing to stop the stupid, giddy smile that played across his lips. Cicero visible shivered as he replayed the sound of her calling him her Keeper over and over in his mind. He was looking forward to their lessons too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 8D Yay they are making progress! Sort of. Rawr werewolves in the next chapter and more sexual tension of course. Thank you so very much for all of the reviews and kudos you've all been tossing at this story. I'm humbled by all of the support you've been giving me and I am so sorry about the time between chapters. Hopefully, work will calm its tits enough for me to set up a regular update schedule and write more frequently soon. Much love, let me know what you think about the chapter, and I hope you have a wonderful day!


	16. The Shit Hath Gotten Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hoooooo boy.

Sixteen

There is something utterly enchanting about the Hunting Grounds. Seemingly endless, the towering trees rise up so far into the air that clouds obscure the tops. Easily larger around than some of the largest manors that Claret has seen, the ancient giants block most of the moonlight and cast the forest floor in a cool twilight. Massive ferns and other leafy plants cluster between the trees over thick green mosses that crawl across the black earth and up along the foliage. She was not a wolf, she realized as she picked her way along the roots and underbrush. That was different. Usually when she was in the hunting grounds she was at the very least in the form of a pony sized wolf or her were form. 

The air smelt of pack and of prey, of something very close to home, at least for the wolf side of her. The dragon was not so sure about the whole thing, honestly. She didn’t like hunting in a pack, didn’t like to share, like the wolf did. She also did not like the arrogant Lord that ruled this realm. At all. A lot of that had to do with her dislike of being controlled and of authority, of anyone stronger than she was that she couldn’t surpass on her own merits. But they needed to speak with someone about dominance among loners and they didn’t have time to wait for communication with the natural werewolves that made their home north of Skyrim. They were reluctant to interact with the Companions even on a good day, thanks to superstition. Something about being a cursed werewolf rather than a natural one was taboo to them. Sure didn’t stop them from asking for aid on several occasions from the Companion pack. Hypocrites. 

The half bosmer broke into a run, following the lingering scent of wolves that had passed through recently. Her body was covered in the savior’s hide and it shimmered with a white light along with the ring on her finger, which Claret was doing her very best to ignore. Shapes twisted through the shadows around her, all manner of werebeasts drawn by her passing. They followed, but refused to come closer. Curious. The young woman let herself fall into the dream, let her body move with the speed of thought, a trick that took practice for anyone coherently aware of the dream. She burst through the trees, body propelled into a wide clearing broken up by streams and low hanging willows. Several shapes lounged among the grasses in the moonlight and Claret was surprised to note that she very clearly recognized one of them. 

The daedric wolf that had brought her the armor watched her with too green eyes, the white slash over its face all but glowing under the bright moon. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” Claret drawled and a deep, female laugh danced about her, stopping the white haired woman in her tracks. 

“I’ve been expecting you, Little Dragon,” The black creature stated without moving her maw. Her voice was rich and disembodied, laced with a sensual combination of amusement and gile. There were weres of various types sprawled out around the horned wolf, all watching the newcomer with an intense wariness. They were awfully protective of one of Hircine’s servants. Tigers, a few wolves, several reptilian behemoths, and even a bear, which was odd considering the dislike bears and wolves tended to have of each other. 

“I can’t even pretend to be surprised,” Claret intoned, folding her arms over her chest and tilting her head in a curious manner. The wolf rose to her full height and in this realm, she was larger still, easily taller than Claret and that in and of itself was off putting. 

“Walk with me, Champion. I will answer your questions,” The she wolf said before striding leisurely along. The feral weres stayed where they lay, though they did not stop watching the uncomfortable woman as she turned to move with the large horned creature. 

Claret strode at the wolf’s shoulder, taking long strides to stay even with her. Come to think of it, Claret really couldn’t recall seeing this particular clearing before. It wasn’t surprising really, considering that the Hunting Grounds were massive. There was a calm here that was different though. 

“What do I call you, exactly?” Claret asked and the wolf laughed.  
“That is your first question?” She intoned almost playfully, “ I have been named Ylva. And that is not what has brought you here.”

“I have to fight for dominance with another wolf. Tonight. I’ve never been in any sort of dominance battle before aside from something odd that happened before I left my pack. I swore not to kill the bastard,” Claret explained with a grimace. 

“The call to Alpha is a potent one, even for loners. Your instincts are going to be in full swing once it hits you. And you may not have much of a choice in whether or not he dies,” Ylva commented with a shrug of her large shoulders. On a wolf it was a strange gesture. Claret’s gut twisted uncomfortably. 

“That isn’t good enough. There has to be a way to control it,” The small halfling stated and the wolf regarded the sky thoughtfully as they continued their wide circle through the clearing. She slowed to a stop and turned the full weight of that acid green stare upon Claret. There was something assessing, judging in the wolf’s gaze that had the woman bristling with something close to hostility. 

“Oh there is. You simply aren’t alpha enough to do it,” The wolf simpered and there was something sickening in the tone, in the words that had Claret digging her clawed nails into her palms and fighting back a growl. It took several long breaths and far more self control than she gave herself credit for to not attack the creature. Ylva let out a rumbling hum and tilted her head thoughtfully, “ But you could be. Eventually.”

There was something in the back of her mind that reviled the idea of taking Arnbjorn as pack. He was a traitor, but he was also devoted to his wife and she was not wolf. Claret had a sinking feeling that Astrid would not enjoy the side effects that making someone pack had. Claret and Arnbjorn would be bound to each other and she would be able to command him in just about any way she wished. Astrid would hate that. Hell, even the idea of him being about to track her left her feeling a bit filthy. 

“Is there a way to prevent the dominance battle at all?” She asked suddenly and Ylva sat, looking vastly more interested than she had moments ago. 

“Dominance must be found. There is nothing that can stop that,” The wolf answered slowly, and there was something meaningful in the way she said it, in how she stared at Claret. 

“The Pack bond. I don’t want him as pack,” Claret declared and the wolf gave her a smile that was all teeth. 

“Who said anything about dominance requiring the Pack bond?” Ylva asked as though she were speaking with a small child and while Claret resented the treatment, she also understood that in this case, it was pretty accurate. The question raised even more in the white haired woman’s mind and she was internally reeling at the prospect. Could she truly attain dominance over Arn without sealing them together? Nearly every test of strength she had seen had been within packs in the first place, so she really had no actual basis of comparison and the companions were distinctly lacking in pack lore in general. Holy hells. She and this wolf had much to talk about.

“Hm, and I think you have what you need,” Ylva insisted, looking toward the edge of the clearing, “ Unless you want to be here when our lord arrives to fetch you?”

Alarm flooded through the dragonborn like a torrent of ice water. No, she most certainly did not want to be around when Hircine appeared. She was not in the least bit surprised that the bastard knew she was in the Hunting Grounds, but she had sort of forgotten about the infuriating man in the midst of the excitement over Arnbjorn and Cicero and well, everything else. 

“Thank you, truly,” Claret emphasized with all that she could muster and Ylva’s grin widened. And then the clearing was falling away and Claret was awake in her small bed within the sanctuary. Whew. What did it say about her that her reasons for being downright terrified of Hircine were not so much that he was who he was but rather, because he had essentially proposed to her and made her generally uncomfortable? Bleah. The ring on her finger was chilly, no doubt with Hircine’s displeasure. Tough shit. Claret shuddered at the thought of having to deal with the Daedric Lord again, though she knew that she’d gotten lucky this time around and that it was only a matter of time before he caught up to her for another chat.

Claret forced aside thoughts of her otherworldly stalker and recalled the few words that she and Ylva had shared. The wolf hadn’t been a tremendous amount of help, honestly. She was definitely the type that seemed to take great enjoyment out of making her students figure out their own answers with a few riddle like hints, which may have been great for teaching life lessons and forcing people to use their minds, but Claret really didn’t have that sort of time. She bit her lower lip. She knew one thing for certain, as dark, disgusting feelings spiraled about her innards in a vile storm; Claret did not want Arnbjorn to be connected to her. The werewolf had enjoyed the idea of not being a loner, of finding home again in all aspects of her life. But there had been this sickening undercurrent that she couldn’t shake. Arnbjorn was wrong. He was untrustworthy. Astrid would always be his alpha. 

If Claret took him as hers, her pack, her subordinate, and granted him her strength, she would be rewarding her father’s murderer and creating a bitter resentment between herself, Arn, and Astrid that would make tensions uncomfortably high. Ylva had hinted that there was a chance to not create the bond, but Claret knew nothing about being an alpha, nothing about creating the bond in the first place, let alone stopping one. She was fucked. 

The white haired woman rose to wash her face and dress in garments that she cared nothing for. An old, tattered pair of dark breeches cut above the knee and a cotton top that barely counted as a breast band, with thin shoulder straps the color of moss. She forwent intimates and shoes, not wanting to ruin anymore of her dwindling clothing supplies. Teal eyes considered the lengthy mass of hair that had grown wild over the past few years. She pulled out a dagger from her bedside and left the sleeping chamber to prevent herself from disturbing the others and moved to one of the few silver mirrors in the sanctuary. It was just outside of the privy a ways, hung on the wall with a deep water basin on a table before it. 

Clumsily, she ran her calloused fingers through the tangled waves that she pulled over her shoulder, trying to sort them out as best she could. Brushes and combs were not things that she usually thought about when it came to purchases. True, Babbette seemed to take great pleasure in brushing the impossibly long locks, but typically, Claret did little more than toss it up into a tail and forget about it. She frowned at the unfamiliar woman in the mirror, too scrawny, too tanned, heavy bags under her eyes and slightly sunken cheeks. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d looked at herself and it was a bit startling. She’d always been small, even with the companions, but now she looked very close to sickly. The past years had taken a heavy toll on her. 

“Allow me?” Cicero’s voice was soft and unexpected in the dim corridor and she couldn’t help herself from jumping if she’d tried. He eyes met his through the mirror, and she let her hair tumble free down her back again. He took that as acceptance, because he drifted over silently, without removing his stare from hers. There was something gorgeous in the way he moved when he wasn’t acting a part. Predatory, effortlessly graceful even under the layers of his motley, Cicero stopped behind her, pulling up a chair from nearby and pressing her shoulders down until she sat upon it. 

Claret’s heart hammered in her throat and she took long slow inhales of his soft scent to assure herself that he had willingly spoken to her, touched her. He had a wide toothed comb in his gloved hand and he began pulling it through the bottom of her hair, gathering it in a loose fist as he worked. The Keeper was methodical, and surprisingly gentle, starting at the end and working he way up toward her scalp before reversing and smoothing through the wavy tendrils of white with an unhurried precision. She let out an unconscious hum of pleasure under the feel of his hands on her hair. It may have been a secret enjoyment for Claret to have her hair played with, but she’d never admit to it. 

Then the red haired man braided a good two feet of the end, tying off the section at around waist length and with a smooth ease, he sliced it off. The weight change was significant and Claret sighed softly as the slightly curling locks fanned about her freely. Cicero brushed through it a few times more, Claret trying very hard not to make too many embarrassing sounds under the attention. Her skin felt hot along her face and neck and she had no doubt in her mind that the vampire could hear her heart racing. He was willingly touching her, being so close and it had the poor woman’s brain stuttering to a halt. His gloves brushed the back of her neck as he gathered the mane up in his hands, an intentional brush of leather that had her shivering and her skin prickling with anticipation. She realized with a start that she WANTED him to bite her.   
She wanted to feel those soft lips caress the column of her throat, the sharp prick of fang teasing at her sensitive skin, and finally the euphoric, heady rush of those deadly teeth sinking deep into the muscle at the base of her neck. She whimpered, a soft, barely there sound that was caged in her throat and his hands hesitated just slightly in response. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders and she watched him disappear from the mirror with a pang of frustration and sadness rolling in her guts. Damn it. 

She drew in a deep breath to chase away her thoughts and feelings of the Keeper. She had other things to worry about at the moment. Like, the rousing family and the scent of Arnbjorn’s anger and unease growing more prominent in the next room. Fuck. 

She huffed out a deep breath and rose to stride down the short hall to the main chamber, still riding the turmoil that Cicero stirred up in her and it was enough to keep her well and truly distracted from the big bad wolf that paced the area near his forge, stretching his muscled arms. One by one the family gathered to watch the spectacle, clustering about the stairs out of the way of the pair of werewolves. Astrid stood worriedly beside her husband, cooing something pointless at the big man that was easily twice Claret’s size. It was sort of fun to think about really. 

But his human size wouldn’t help him very much here. No this would be nothing but their spiritual size, their wolf size and how they used the power of their auras. She glanced about the room, stare snagging on Cicero’s surprisingly serious looking form watching from the back stairwell, golden eyes intense and locked on her own with something almost demanding in their depths. His lips mouthed something when the rest of the room was distracted by Astrid speaking out for them to not interfere and that this was something that she sanctioned and supported. Claret didn’t hear any of it. No she was far too caught on the sight of the words “Crush him, my Dove,” on the red haired jester’s silent lips to pay attention to anything else. Heat stuttered through her limbs and she felt her lips split into a smile that was feral and cruel and entirely inhuman, teeth pointed and lengthening from that primal delight bubbling up through her insides. 

She ripped her gaze from him to the rest of the room, pupils slitting like a cat’s and a low, rumbling growl simmering in her throat. Babbette stared at her with a morbid fascination, clearly noting the subtle changes in Claret’s demeanor with each passing moment. Arnbjorn looked away from his wife who stank of fear and trepidation to watch the tiny half elf, his own features becoming more pointed and wolfish. He strode forward, head high and chest out in a dominant posture with his aura snarling around him unseen by all but the supernatural creatures in the room, but that could be felt like a negative energy, a harsh wind that wasn’t really there. He was a bit like a bonfire, a small sun, all heat and anger and violence. 

A thrill of excitement lit Claret’s nerves and her smile widened. Yes. She would enjoy snuffing him out. The little female stalked forward in a dominant stance of her own, body ridged and clawed fingers flexing at her sides. She let the wolf spill out through her skin in a wash of power that spiraled around her human form like something alive and wild. Where Arnbjorn was a bonfire, Claret was a fierce storm, cool, unpredictable, and electric. The air stank of wolf and ozone and they circled each other in measured strides. His aura snapped at hers, testing, tasting, seeking weakness, hesitation. She allowed it, knowing that he was mostly posturing so far. She let him convince himself that he had a chance. And then he was changing and like an honorable fighter, Claret waited it out. She watched him grow as deep grey and white fur crawled all over him, teeth and claws becoming monstrous instruments of murder. 

He was also still of the cursed blood, but he was much larger than the average companion and was probably very close to if not larger than Farkas, which was impressive. The change was still slow for him, and his bloody red eyes glared at her, a thick tail snaking out behind his hunched, heavily muscled body. He roared out a howl as his transformation ended and she snorted at the cliche of it. He was showing off for his mate and the family. Whatever. She could be impressive too. She took a deep breath and in the time it took her to exhale, her body shifted. It was fluid and seamless, quiet and very controlled. Sleek and athletic, she matched him for height, though she didn’t hunch like he did. Had his body allowed it, he would have stood taller than she did. Claret simply stared at him, glowing blue green eyes vibrant in the mass of white fur that covered her body. Her ears pitched forward, alert and her black lips curled back into a snarl that he mirrored. 

Her appearance threw him off of his game, being much larger than he had expected. Good. He struck first, a wild lunge of long arms and wicked claws that she allowed to graze her cheek enough to draw blood. She grinned with that wolf mouth and then she was moving. Her body was a liquid blur that bounded to his left and behind, surprising the big male. Five ivory claws raked across his back in a violent strike that had him stumbling forward with a pained snarl. He whirled to lash out and she blocked his strike, one forearm intercepting the claw while her second clawed hand was already countering with a slash to his midsection that he barely avoided. He snapped at her with angry teeth and she dropped, slipping through his spread legs that were braced apart to hold his weight. She pivoted, turning to face him on all four limbs as she slid across the stone floor, leaving great gouged with her claws. 

Arnbjorn whirled to face her and the she wolf launched herself at him with her powerful back legs, catching him in the chest and tumbling them both to the floor in a mess of fur and teeth and blood. They grappled, straining to prevent the other from sinking teeth into a neck. With a tremendous effort, Arnbjorn flung her off of him. He was bleeding from several shallow cuts and bites and a few deeper wounds,his barrel chest heaving with effort and rage growing on his features. He was nearly feral in his bloodlust and pain. Claret landed hard on her side, rolling into a crouch almost instantly. She licked the mixed cocktail of their blood from her muzzle and grinned. Adrenaline sang in her body like a drug and she loved it; the fight, the pain, the challenge. More. 

Over and over they flung themselves at the other, tirelessly until blood painted the floor in wide arcs while the family looked on in a mixture of fascination and concern. It was crude and bloody and there was a sort of poetry in their killing dance. Only Claret was really holding back at that point. Arnbjorn had lost himself to the bloodlust fully and was barely recognizable as anything but a beast. Again and again they circled and Claret was happy to hurt him as much as she could within reason. She flexed her skills, shrugging off his attacks and toying with the big wolf while exhibiting strength and control. The few nicks he managed to land on her only helped fuel her own rage. 

While they danced about each other physically, their auras attacked one another with equal fervor. Each one struggled to dominate, to force submission. Claret hesitated, however, holding her aura back from simply overwhelming the male. He was not worthy of her gifts. He was not pack and would never be pack. She would not allow it. The she wolf struck out in anger then, finally giving into the instinct that choked her human side with fingers made of hunger and violence. She slammed him into the hard stone with a crack, teeth firmly around his thick throat and a clawed hand poised over his heart where it beat rapidly in his chest, ready to tear it from his ribcage. At the same instant, she flooded him with her alpha, the intensity of it making his aura stutter out like a weak candle against a hurricane. 

Distantly she heard Astrid’s cry of fear, the gasps and panicked mortal hearts around the room and over all of it, the gleeful giggle of her Keeper. She held the other wolf there for a long moment, growling into fur and flesh, tightening her hold in demand. Arnbjorn finally relented, letting out a whine that was keening and submissive. His neck craned willingly to the side in acceptance of her will and his arms flopped down limp. She huffed around him before pulling back to brace one arm on his chest. Instinct rolled over her like a wave in the ocean and she postured over him, tail and head high and dominant; a loud, triumphant howl ripping from her chest and sending energy skittering about the room. That howl, the energy begged to connect, to touch, to fill his mind and make him hers. 

Claret struggled to hold it back from him, to keep him out of her head. She may not have been alpha enough to resist, but he sure as hell wasn’t good enough to be hers! She was heaving air desperately into frantic, needy lungs by the time that she managed to gain control and pull away from him. He did not deserve it. He was a traitor. He killed his last alpha. He was shit. The wolf relented in acceptance finally and the resistance vanished. Claret moved off of him, watching him transform back. Most of his wounds had already healed from that alone, but he would definitely be sore and bruised for a while. He stared at her warily.

“You could have claimed my allegiance. I would have been yours to command. Why didn’t you? How didn’t you?” He rambled, looking exhausted with sweaty locks sticking to his face and his eyes bloodshot and sunken. She growled and tried to force the change. It took more effort than usual. The wolf was feeling powerful and hungry in the wake of the fight. She stood tall, her nude form covered in blood and sweat and locked her eyes on Astrid.

“You belong to Astrid,” She said simply and the blonde flushed with relief and gratitude that made something vile tasting bloom in the back of Claret’s mouth. She respected Astrid for a lot of things, but her relationship with Arnbjorn discolored that admiration greatly. Claret walked away from the naked Nord to wash herself and dress. As she left, she heard Arnbjorn warn the others away from the blood to prevent infection. At least he was that useful. He lost, he could handle the mess.

Cicero caught her eye as she passed him in the stairwell and his closeness with her wilder half so close to the surface had her growling low in her throat with want. Hungry could be satisfied in a lot of ways, the wolf reasoned, and for once the dragon was fully in agreement. She looked him over from head to toe and back again, pupils blown wide and a heavy flush marking her cheeks. She was grateful to be shrouded in the darkness of the stairwell, sheltered from the eyes of the rest of the room. He stared at her with a mixture of wonder, hesitation and something very similar to want. His mouth was a beautiful gravity. In one moment she was staring at it, wanting to re-memorize the texture and taste of him and in the next, she had her lips crushing against his. A still clawed hand curled in the hair at the nap of his neck, pulling him down to her, fitting them together like they were made to be that way. 

The Keeper let out this desperate, needy, gorgeous gasping moan that had lightning dancing beneath her skin. Gloved hands gripped her upper arms tight, clinging and she pulled back enough to slice her tongue on one of her own fangs intentionally before gripping his chin with her free hand and kissing him again with equal ferocity. He groaned quietly then under the taste of her blood flooding his mouth with each pass of her tongue against his. The cut sealed quickly and with a low snarl she pulled back, breathing hard and looking like a feral mess. He was not much better off with his eyes deep red, his face flushed and lips stained with her blood. 

“Claret,”He breathed out in a broken whisper sounding absolutely tortured with longing and mistrust all at once. Cicero wanted her. She knew that. But he was still unwilling to trust her, to be fully hers. Claret swallowed hard and shoved aside the heat of tears that wanted to badly to cloud her vision. It was too soon, and as hard as it was, she stepped back from him, both hurt and resigned. 

“ I’ll wait until you are ready to forgive me,” She murmured and his brows furrowed, frown painful to look at. 

“And what if I never do?” He asked softly, the chatter of the family in the room next to them drowning out their conversation. 

“I can be patient,” She shrugged weakly and he let out a twisted chuckle that was a little breathy while shaking his head, smile finally reaching his bright eyes.

“No you can’t, Cicero knows better,” He retorted and she tried to look offended, but the soft snicker ruined it. 

“I’ll give it me best effort then,” She relented and the mirth drained from her face. She left him then, fingers rolling over the phantom feel of his lips on hers. It would not happen again. The young woman just could not keep doing this to herself. And even if she didn’t want to admit it, it wasn’t fair to him. She wanted his consent too much to just take from him, even if she knew he craved what they had before. The thought made her feel filthy for forcing her wants on him and having such poor self control. She was an expert at fucking things up between them. 

A strong grip on her arm pulled her to a stop in the middle of the temple to Sithis and she looked back at the flustered vampire that stared at her with large eyes. Her heart flipped in her chest. 

“Ah, Cicero was wondering if Dove was serious about learning about Mother and when she would like to start,” He inquired, face hopeful, eager, even. 

“Yes, as soon as you are willing,” She answered far too quickly. His face lit with something very close to joy then, and she couldn’t stop the soft smile on her own lips if she tried. 

“In the day? Perhaps when the others are sleeping, so that we won’t be disturbed?” He asked, voice carrying a lot more of his usual exuberance, though it was still kept soft. Oh no. Alone with no one about to interrupt them? He was really asking a lot of her self control, wasn’t he? No, she could handle it. She’d be alright. She’d just have to focus on learning and not on her tempting teacher. The werewolf swallowed and nodded and he clapped and danced a bit before her in glee.

“Can I put on clothes now?” She asked abruptly and he leered at her in a way that was so similar to their first weeks together that she felt a bit of whiplash tangled in nostalgia. 

“Of course, of course, dear sister must cover herself so that she isn’t giving a show to any naughty siblings, especially in front of mother!” He cackled and she flushed a little in embarrassment at the mention of the night mother. 

“Oh Sithis forbid,” she replied with a raised eyebrow before turning and deliberately sashaying out of the room to the sound of the Jester’s amused laughter. Claret smiled to herself, pleased that he didn’t seem upset over her impulsive kiss and that she’d managed to make him smile. Perhaps things weren’t all that hopeless after all?

She cleaned herself up and dressed in a comfortable pair of leggings and a tunic before seeking out food. Transforming always left her famished and she was extremely grateful to find Nazir already cooking up a storm. Arnbjorn was at the long table with the others, digging into breakfast and she acknowledged the nod he gave her with one of her own. Her animosity toward him was gone mostly now. He wasn’t worthy of her ire now that he’d been proven as less. She’d be pleasant to keep the peace and that would be it. If the rest of the group were nervous about her after the earlier display, none of them showed it.

Claret ate with them, eating far more than usual to make up for the burned energy she’d expelled. When she had mostly finished, the white haired man moved over a few seats to sit across from her, looking wary and oddly hopeful all at once. It was a strange look on his gruff features. 

“I know that we aren’t pack, and I am thankful about that. But if you ever need to run or hunt, I’d run at your back. If you’d allow or want it, that is,” He offered in an awkward manner, eyes flicking from the table to her face and back. She reluctantly found the whole thing endearing in a strange way. 

“I’d like that,” She replied after a moment and he grinned broadly, clearly excited about the idea. Claret gave him a small smile in return. They weren’t a pack, but they were allies and the Brotherhood was depending upon them both for survival. Working together was needed and even if they couldn’t fully like one another, they could at least build a functioning team. And running with another was always better when the wolf was active. 

Astrid motioned to her from over the other wolf’s shoulder and the half elf excused herself to follow the sanctuary leader out of the room and toward the office. Perhaps a mission came in? Astrid stopped before her desk and turned to embrace Claret fully. Stiffly, the white haired woman blinked up at the other female in surprise. 

“Thank you for what you did for me, for my husband. And I am sorry for doubting you. You could have made him your follower but you didn’t for the sake of the family and I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate that,” The blonde said, before pulling back and smiling down at Claret. The white haired woman played with the hem of her shirt uncomfortably and flushed scarlet under the thanks. If Astrid knew the real reason for Claret’s discretion with the bond, she likely wouldn’t have been entirely at pleased,” But now I have something very important to ask of you, sister, something that must stay between us.”

Claret screwed her brows together in confusion and tilted her head, as Astrid leaned in close and lowered her voice to barely above a whisper.

“I believe that Cicero is plotting something. He has been meeting with someone within the temple night after night, talking in low voices to someone, I know not who. But they speak of reinstalling the old ways and I can only imagine, removing me,” She stated and Claret gaped at her like a fish. She didn’t know what to think, her thoughts racing, “ I need to you lie in hiding in order to discover who the traitor is so that we can stop this rift from growing now before he infects anyone else with his madness.”

“H-how? That room has no vantage points of worth and he would know if I were cloaked with magi- why are you looking at me like that?” Claret asked, suddenly getting the feeling that she was going to hate the next words out of Astrid’s smirking mouth. 

“Why from inside of the Night Mother’s coffin, of course!” Astrid chuckled and Claret’s jaw dropped again, head swimming. That seemed so...so… disrespectful, not to mention that, no offense to mother, she’d be sharing a closed, tiny space, with a very very old corpse for an unnameable amount of time. Ugh. The very thought of it gave her the heebie jeebies and she shuddered visibly.

“Nope.” Claret stated and turned to leave the room, only for the blonde to reign her back in with firm hands on her shoulders that turned her back around. 

“I know, I know, it’s creepy and crazy, and I am so sorry for asking this of you, but I am out of options. I NEED to know if he is going to be a threat to the sanctuary and to the family. Our numbers are already so small, we cannot afford a division,” Astrid pleaded and Claret glared. 

“ You are going to owe me so much for this shit. Keep that in mind,” Claret hissed, feeling horrendously conflicted and reluctant. Astrid smiled victoriously and started pushing the young woman toward the stairs. 

“We just went into his rooms not long ago, quickly, go now while he’s distracted,” She insisted and Claret groaned in disbelief. She didn’t give much credit to Cicero betraying the brotherhood. That was silly. But Astrid probably wouldn’t take Claret’s word for it at all. 

“I hate you. I hope you know,” Claret drawled as she started down into the atrium.

“Yes yes, I love you too, sister dear, now go!” Astrid hissed with a laugh and Claret shot her a dirty look before using her inhuman speed to rush through the sanctuary to the coffin that sat motionlessly in the temple. She stared at it for a long moment, feeling so very disrespectful and touched the surface lightly. 

“I am so sorry mother,” She whispered and the coffin lurched under her hand, startling a yip out of the white haired woman as the front split open to reveal a startling well preserved corpse for how old it was. Sunken, dark skin clung to a skeletal frame that was dressed in a fresh dress of black, her arms folded over her chest, A strange sensation curled around Claret’s heart, cool acceptance and something welcoming, beckoned her into the coffin. She went with the compulsion, warily watching the empty sockets of the dead woman. When she was out of the way of the doors, the slid shut all on their own and pressed the darkness tight around the two of them. At first, Claret felt panic sinking into her senses. The tight space, the lack of any light at all, the fact that she share the space with a corpse and only her own frantic breathing. 

“Shhhh calm yourself my sweet girl, you are safe, mother is here,” The voice was gentle, female and very familiar. It was in her head and not, disembodied but definitely from the Night Mother. The sockets of those empty eyes glowed with a dark red hue and peace gradually sank through the fear to settle the dragonborn. She let herself rest against the skeletal figure, whom seemed more and more alive with every second. Her frame felt soft, as though the preserved skin had revitalized itself and in fact, covered soft, giving muscle. Gentle arms cradled Claret, taking the woman’s weight and letting the werewolf rest easier, the raspy, deeply feminine voice crooning gentle lullabies in the white haired woman’s ear while rocking her like a child and stoking a free hand through her hair. The Night Mother felt alive with a pulse and a need for breath and everything and Claret let out a relieved sigh, nuzzling into the woman’s hold as overwhelmed tears streaked down her face.

How long had it been since she had been held like this? Since she had seen her mother or father? For so long she didn’t remember her mother’s face. It was overwhelming and wonderful all at once. She last track of how long she stayed there, listening to the strangely melodious and comforting voice that she could only describe as home. And then a second voice broke her from her near sleeping state. Cicero. He was saying...something? Something about the Night Mother not speaking? Did he want to be Listener? Of course he did. That was obvious and understandable. 

“Poor Cicero. Dear Cicero. Such a dear and loyal child. I love him dearly. But he will never hear my voice, for he is not the Listener. But you, child who warms these old bones, for you, I will speak. Tell Cicero the words he has been waiting all of these years to hear,” Mother said gently and then light flooded Claret’s sight and Cicero screeched in dismay and rage. She fell to a heap at mother’s feet, disoriented and confused, her head swimming with a head ache and the euphoria of Mother’s embrace.

“Darkness rises when silence dies,” She mumbled and a hand fisted in her hair roughly, yanking her face up to look at violent red eyes and a scowl that screamed murder on the face of her obsession. Even pissed, he looked good enough to eat.

“What. Did. You. say?” He demanded, and there was a stillness, a deadly energy around him in that truly terrified her to her very core. He would kill her without hesitation if she so much as batted an eye and she knew it. She could taste it. This was how she was going to die. Damn Astrid. But at least it was him.

“Darkness rises, when silence dies,” Claret repeated, this time louder and his body spasmed above her. The hand in her hair vanished and she blinked up at him owlishly as he turned white as a sheet, staring at her as though she were a ghost. And then he was kneeling in front of her, hands grasping hers and bowing his head over them. He practically wept over them, pressing light kisses to them over and over and over between nearly insane laughter. 

“Cicero found you! Cicero found his purpose! Cicero didn’t disappoint mother! I found the-”Cicero's ramblings were cut off by Astrid bursting into the room with a dagger drawn, rage on her face as though she were prepared for a fight. 

“What is going on here!?What have you done to-Dove?” She broke off her snarl into a confused tone that would have been funny in any other situation. She looked at the scene in mortification and Cicero glance at her before looking back to Claret in complete adoration. 

“Cicero has done nothing, But Mother, Mother has chosen! All hail the Listener!” He announced with a madness in his gaze that was unsettling even to Claret, who normally would have been overjoyed at his attention. The title Listener brought chills to her spine and she jolted when Mother’s voice reached her again. Claret turned as much as she could to see the dead woman with Cicero still holding tightly to her hands. 

“Listener, go to Amaund Motierre in Volunruud, accept his gold and complete his contract,” Mother ordered gently, and Claret found herself nodding before she could stop herself.

“Yes, Mother,” She murmured softly, and the dead woman fell silent again. She shook herself and turned to find Cicero staring at her with wonder and Astrid glaring at all of it with indignation and disbelief. 

“Is what he is saying the truth?” She asked Claret who nodded reluctantly. Astrid’s blue eyes narrowed sharply with something close to hate and the white haired woman felt her stomach crawl into her throat. Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's happening!   
> 


	17. The Distance Between Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LOTS of information in this chapter as a warning. A lot of this comes from several sources from the ES games to the wikia but I've also tweaked a few bits to fill in gaps and take my own artistic spin on things. I hope that I managed to keep it interesting!

Seventeen

“Explain. Now,” Astrid’s voice was hard and full of ice. Said ice fell sharply into Claret’s twisting guts. This was exactly what she had been trying avoid. The white haired woman despaired as she stared up at the leader of the Brotherhood. 

“I did as you instructed. I hid in the coffin and waited for Cicero. He spoke to no one but the Night Mother,” Claret began, hugging herself tightly. She shivered under the blonde’s scrutiny. Astrid had commanded her to follow her to the entry room and Claret had been forced to physically restrain Cicero from doing something stupid and attacking the blonde. He’d watched her with such wide eyed reverence that it was unnerving. Now she stood awkwardly in front of Astrid before that large table with the map of the world sprawled across it and the chill from the entryway creeping down her spine. “ When I was inside of the coffin, the Night Mother awoke. She spoke to me, told me that I was the Listener and she gave me a job.”

“A job,” Astrid looked skeptical, and scoffed at the very thought. And honestly, Claret really couldn’t blame her. The werewolf was having a hard enough time wrapping her brain around it all.

“She said to go to Volunruud and speak to someone called Amaund Motierre,” Claret parroted. She really did not like pissing off Astrid. The woman was someone she respected, saw as a sister and the last thing that she wanted was to make things toxic between the two of them. Damnit! They had just started becoming friends! 

“I don’t know who that could be, but I know of Volunruud. Interesting. But why now?” Astrid pondered, biting her thumbnail as she stared at nothing, mind working. 

“Should I go and check it out?” Claret hedged. Perhaps if she let Astrid continue to hold the reigns, the blonde would be pacified. Astrid frowned.

“Yes, No! I… need to consider things. For now, train, take jobs from Nazir. This is all happening too fast. Even if the Night Mother did contact you, we can’t rush headlong into things without intel,” Astrid mused, blue eyes hard and narrowed on Claret. 

“I understand,” The smaller woman replied, feeling her guts tying themselves in knots. There was this uncomfortable nagging sensation worming through her thoughts, something insistent that wanted to go to the meeting spot, to follow Mother’s commands. But she would wait. She had to. Besides, she could tell that Astrid was curious, intrigued, despite the anger. 

“I expect you to keep these events to yourself and to control that idiot Jester. We don’t need a panic in the family over something that we are unsure of,” Astrid warned and there was a rage that flared instantly within Claret at the casual insult toward Cicero. That didn’t surprise the werewolf. What did was the indignant ire that simmered under her skin at the thought of keeping the family in the dark about Mother. Claret clamped down on it hard, knowing better than to show so much as a flinch in response. She was too angry to speak so the half elf nodded firmly. Astrid waved dismissively, “ Go then, I need to be alone and you have a fool to contain.”

Claret strode away, trying to appear unfazed and casual. She bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood and that distracted her from the way both of the dragon in her and the wolf rose up to press against the insides of her skin as if to tear through her and escape. She found herself back inside of the temple area before she’d realized it. Cicero was humming happily to himself as he polished the outside of the Night Mother’s coffin. Claret observed him silently from the doorway. He was acting so strangely compared to before. That was saying something. 

“Cicero?” She murmured softly and the Keeper whirled about with a flourish, golden eyes alight with something feverish, copper hair dancing about his shoulders. Mine. Something dark and possessive rumbled deep inside around the protective anger that still had her figure tensed. 

“Yes, Listener?” He breathed out in a rush. He looked at her as though she were a blessing sent from the Divines and it had chills breaking out on her skin. 

“Let’s go to Falkreath, maybe complete some contracts,” She offered and his eyes rounded as though she’d given him a great gift.   
“Oh! You want Cicero to hunt with you? Travel with you? What fun! It will be like old times!” He cheered, jubilant to the point of dancing in place. His enthusiasm was downright contagious and she felt her anger ebbing and a crooked smile tugging at her lips. 

“Let’s go quickly, hm? And don’t speak to the others alright? This is our little adventure,” She added, watching him meaningfully. The red haired vampire nodded slowly, curious, and yet accepting of the request. Claret left him to pack up a travel bag and slip on her armor from Hircine along with a warm cloak. She chatted with Nazir for contract names as she gathered some provisions. She didn’t pack much, just a few sweet rolls, some spices and herbs. She would hunt on the road and they could eat in the inns if needed; she wanted to travel lightly. 

They were out of the Sanctuary within a half hour. The door sealed shut behind the duo almost silently and Claret breathed out a tense sigh. She headed toward the hidden stable with the jester in tow. He’d thrown on a simple, black furred travel cloak and had a pack slung over one shoulder. The vampire hesitated when Claret began saddling her large war horse. 

“A-ah, Listener, Cicero hates to be a bother but he does not have a saddle for his horse,” He stated and Claret paused to look at him over her shoulder, raising a single brow. 

“Is this you asking to ride with me, Keeper?” She asked and a wicked grin curled Cicero’s lips. It had her pulse quickening and her chest constricting. Ah, she’d missed seeing that lecherous smile. She led Empress out of her stall into the clearing and the big dapple pranced impatiently. She was more than ready to be off. The white haired woman secured her belongings in the saddle bags and swung up onto the horse in a smooth movement. 

 

“It would be inappropriate of me, the lowly Keeper to be so close to the Listener! Cicero shall walk!” He declared, looking oddly flustered all of the sudden, which was very strange considering this was the man who had on multiple occasions not only fucked her senseless but also claimed to being above her rank. He was confusing. She also wanted to get away from the sanctuary before daylight. 

“Cicero. Get on the damn horse,” She grouched holding her hand down to him. The Imperial hesitated before his gloved hand grasped hers and he pulled himself up behind her in the saddle. He was cool against her back, his firm body a tight line of surprisingly comfortable muscle. It took a great deal of self control on her part not to let out any inappropriate sounds at the feeling of him. Her attraction to him really was terrifying. Claret spurred her mount out through the woods and onto the road, a satisfied rumble leaving her throat when the vampire held onto her waist. 

The rode in silence for a long while with only the trees and sounds of the night around them. Finally, Claret felt some of the pressure from earlier ease away from her. 

“What troubles the Listener?” Cicero’s voice was close to her ear and she shivered.   
“A lot of things. I don’t really understand what is happening or why. Astrid hates me. You don’t trust me. I don’t know how to fix any of this,” Claret admitted finally and Cicero tensed. 

“It’s not that Cicero doesn’t trust you. Cicero has to now. You are the Listener. You are the person that Mother trusts, which means that I should trust you too. Cicero… I am afraid,” He said so softly that she thought that she had misheard him. Afraid? Empress plodded along at a steady trot beneath them, the big horse content and easily holding the both of them as though they weighed nothing. Her shoes clacked over the sparsely cobbled road that ran a few miles from where the sanctuary was hidden and into Falkreath. Claret let the sounds of crickets, the big horse, the forest around her swallow her up as she tried very hard to wrap her brain around the fact that Cicero was afraid of something. And he had addressed himself as “I” making the statement doubly important. 

“Why?” She asked softly and as expected, he said nothing, his gloved fingers tightening slightly on her armor with a creak. Claret swallowed against the anxious feelings in her throat and chest. The occasional lanterns that marked the road here and there flickered over the pines and made the forbidding night a little cozier. The light played over the late evening fog that had settled low to the ground and the trees pressed in close on all sides, wrapping the travelers in their own little world. They rode in a tense silence for a long time before Cicero let out a sigh that rustled the hair that escaped from the loose braid she’d thrown her mane into. She shivered, surprised to feel the Imperial resting his chin on her shoulder in a fairly intimate manner. 

“ Of you, of course,” He replied and Claret felt as though she’d been punched in the gut. A protest struggled to free itself from her lips and he chuckled.

“You went from being some random little girl that helped me on the road to a moment of solace from the silence and then the person I hated most in a matter of weeks. And then, you became an obsession, the one that got away, the person I dreamed of both keeping and killing every night,” Cicero continued and fear tickled through Claret’s insides at the admission. She had known that he probably thought of her that way, but to hear it plainly? It was unnerving. The obsession bit was the scarier part, honestly and she wasn’t quite sure how to feel about it. Granted, she really wasn’t much better. He had lingered in the corner of every thought, tormented her dreams, made her regret every choice she’d even made since leaving him. 

“And now, I learn not only that you’ve managed to be found by that harlot Astrid and brought into the ranks of the family, a task that I had wanted for myself. But oh no, that isn’t all. Of course you end up being the one person that I have been searching for the better part of fifteen years. Right there! Unassuming, unknowing, right under my nose and flitting in and out of my vision like a tease,” His voice had dropped into that heavily accented, dark tone that hinted at violence and other things. A bitter laugh left the man. “If only mother had spoken to you when we were in Dawnstar, or even Morthal! This all would have been prevented. I could have trained you, cultivated you, protected you from that false woman.”  
“She did speak to me,” Claret rasped, voice shaking far more than she liked and her eyes were hot. He flinched like he’d been slapped. She felt awful for the man. “I didn’t know who she was. I just… saw her in my dreams a few times, heard her voice telling me what to do. I’m certain now that she is the only reason that Vaermina didn’t take me when I was in Dawnstar.”

He wrapped his arms around her waist tightly, face buried in her hair and neck. His breathing was shuddering, form trembling like a leaf. 

“You weren’t ready,” He murmured after a moment of collecting himself. Claret hummed her agreement. 

“I wasn’t a killer then. Not really,” She added. 

“You still aren’t much of one,” Cicero snarked and Claret scoffed, tugging on a strand of his hair from over her shoulder in retribution. 

“I still have a lot to learn,” She relented finally and he pressed tighter to her, as though he were trying to hug his way inside of her. She could practically feel his question burning in her ears without him having to ask. The white haired woman glanced at his red eyes with a slight turn of her head, “ Will you teach me, my Keeper?”

“Yes,” The response was sharp, needy, hungry and even that single word did lewd things to her insides. “ How to kill, how to Listen, how to lead, yes, Cicero will teach his Listener everything.”

“You wanted to be the Listener, didn’t you?” The question left her lips before she could help it. A laugh was startled from him.

“Of course I did. Cicero thought that he was alone with only Mother and distant, scattered siblings. Mother didn’t speak and so Cicero Kept. It was all Cicero knew to do!” He admitted, hints of hysteria creeping into his voice. 

“Is that why you are afraid of me?” Claret asked, biting her lower lip and training her burning eyes hard on the torchlit road ahead.

“No. I am afraid of you because of what this means for us, because you obey Astrid, because you are the one person that can destroy everything,” He replied, and she could hear his heart racing in his chest which was odd for a vampire, she thought. 

“What do you mean? What does this mean for us?” She asked. He let out a humorless laugh.

“That’s right, no one taught you the rules, the old ways. Cicero has his work cut out for him. We will have to start at the beginning for you to understand everything,” The red head bemoaned. 

“I want to understand. I don’t want you to be afraid of me. That is the last thing that I want,” Claret said and his hold tightened briefly. She wasn’t really certain that he believed her. 

“Then we need to find a place to camp, secluded, not an Inn. The sanctuary isn’t ideal because Astrid and her dog would be against me teaching you anything, especially in earshot,” Cicero mused softly, seeming so subdued suddenly. Claret had a place in mind. 

The grotto was mostly how she’d left it, ethereal, dark, secluded. The lingering scent of death and decay had even Empress a bit skittish. The place smelt of wolf and blood and power. Cicero was tense behind her, probably for a lot of reasons. Claret guided Empress away from the entrance, further up the stream that she’d bathed in and closer to the mouth of it that gushed out from a small cave. She was unconcerned of danger in the area. The grotto belonged to Hircine and like it or not, she was his creature. Claret slid down from the saddle and let the horse drink and browse the plentiful foliage for a well deserved rest. Cicero looked about with a grimace, nose scrunched up. 

“This place stinks. Like wet dog. Ugh,” He grumped and Claret raised a brow at him, wry smile curling the corner of her mouth. 

“Oh? So I smell like wet dog then?” She asked sweetly and he blinked at her as if debating the intelligence of answering that question. He grinned devilishly and she knew he was about to be a little shit.

“The sweetest of wet dogs, dear Listener,” He crooned dramatically, leaning in to sniff at her and she laugh indignantly, swatting at him halfheartedly. What a brat. He danced out of her reach with a grace that was sickening. 

“Well I wouldn’t want to defile your poor senses so you can set up camp while I check the area for other dogs,” She sneered at him and he snickered as she trotted off into the murk. She smiled like an idiot to herself as she bounded over rocks, checking scents and looking for any traces of recent visitors. Claret couldn’t even try to hide her joy at the return of their playful interactions. She’d missed his teasing. The grotto was empty save for deer and other prey that huddled in the trees. Good. Claret was thorough, pressing her hands to rocks and trees to leave the scent of alpha behind as a warning to any predators along the entrance and around a wide perimeter to ensure anything that she missed was aware of her and the danger she posed. 

It was a little over an hour later that she slunk back to Cicero and the horse to find that he’d set up the small tent she’d packed, built a fire and started dinner. Empress had been brushed and her saddle set aside, much to Claret’s approval. He looked up from stirring a pot of something tasty smelling to watch her step into the firelight. Golden eyes were guarded, as they watched her settle herself a respectable distance from him by the fire. 

“I don’t know how much you know about mother and about father, so I will start at the beginning. It will be easier that way,” He murmured, voice low and quiet, almost swallowed up but the sounds of the grotto and the crackle of the fire. Claret’s full attention was instantly on him. There was something almost reverent about his voice. 

“Father, the Dread Lord, the Void, Sithis, he has many names, but what most forget is that he is part of the beginning of everything. The world, the daedra and aedra, everything that crawls, swims and flies owes it’s existence to Him. He is nothing and everything all at the same time. Sithis is the soul of a being called Padomay. He is the manifestation of darkness and the absence of life. His other half is Anuri-el, the soul of Anu, whom is his opposite. Sithis and Anuri-el brought about the creation of the the realms; Aetherius, Oblivion, and Mundus. They are also responsible for the existence of the Daedra and Aedra respectively,” Cicero began and Claret found herself lulled into the deep, musical cadence of his speech. 

“I’ve never even heard of Padomay and Anu, let alone Anuri-el,” Claret admitted, brows furrowing in puzzlement. The vampire chuckled, stirring the small kettle of broth over the fire. His gaze became distant, losing itself in the crackling embers.

“Few remember them, honestly. The priesthood, some older organizations, hold on to old texts about them but a great deal of it has been lost to time and most only really worship the Divines or the Daedric Princes. It’s rather sad if you think about it, really,” Cicero added.

“But what are they exactly?” Claret asked, lips turning down into a puzzled frown, trying to wrap her brain around the concept of a being or beings that made a creature like Hircine look like a small child. It was terrifying to imagine. Cicero made a twisted noise in the back of his throat.

“Honestly, it’s impossible to really say what they are. We can’t really understand them. They are everything and nothing. They ignore us mostly, are far too caught up in their own business and in the secrets of the universe to care if we remember them or not and yet their fingerprints stain everything around us and make them impossible to forget or ignore, even if we do not remember what we are seeing. Anu is life, Padomay is the absence of life. When life is born into the world because of the energy of Anuri-el, Sithis takes it back.They are give and take and in balance with each other always. Twins,” He tried explaining and Claret felt so many more questions bubbling up in her guts. 

“Anuri-el sounds an awful lot like Auri-el,” She stated and Cicero’s lips curled into a pleased grin. 

“Ah, yes, Auri-el is a physical manifestation of Anuri-el, an Aedric form of his soul that isalso known as Akatosh,” Cicero explained.

“Aka- no! Seriously? They are the same?” Claret’s eyes rounded, suddenly not sure if she wanted to know this. Cicero raised a brow at her reaction and nodded slowly.   
“ Auri-el is worshiped by mer and is often referred to as Akatosh here in Skyrim, so it is no wonder that you didn’t know of their connections. Why does this upset the Listener?” Cicero asked. Claret swallowed, feeling trepidation and conflict in her gut that she was fairly surprised by. She hugged her knees to her chest. 

“I am the dragonborn. Akatosh is considered the father of my soul. He made me, according to everything I’ve ever been told. And yet somehow I ended up becoming the listener and serving his opposite? That seems…” She trailed off in confusion. 

“Ah. You are thinking of it the wrong way. You are assuming that Anuri-el and Sithis are enemies or rivals. They are partners. Both would have been needed to make you exist, Listener. By serving one, you serve all.” The Keeper reassured her and she relaxed a little, starting to feel a bit overwhelmed by the concepts he was giving her. 

“So if Auri-el is from Anuri-el, I assume that Sithis also has an incarnation,” She said and Cicero nodded and grinned broadly. 

“Oh yes! Or rather, he did. He’s quite dead now, mostly returned back to himself. Can the Listener guess? What is the opposite of Auri-el? Of Mer?”The jester asked playfully and Claret wracked her brain. 

“The opposite of mer is men. A god that died...Shor!” She exclaimed suddenly and Cicero clapped and bounced in place on the log he’d perched himself on. 

“Very good, Listener! Shor or more accurately, Lorkhan,” He praised her and she smiled at him until the confirmation sank in. Wait. That would mean that Shor was Sithis or from Sithis at the very least and the Companions held Shor in the highest regard. Stupid laughter bubbled up within her guts. Cicero watched her with a curious, but perplexed smile on his lips. 

“Shor is Sithis. Vilkas is a fucking idiot!” She cackled, hopping to her feet to pace the area around the fire, trying to settle the wild feelings that rampaged inside of her. “He was wrong! This whole time, I have been looked down upon by him for honoring Sithis and following my parent’s traditions while he praises the idea of going to Shor’s side in Sovngarde in the afterlife without even knowing that Sithis made Shor. Oh that’s hilarious!”

“Isn’t it?” Cicero cackled, mirth curling his lips. Claret forced herself to settle again, focused upon the Keeper who looked pretty happy to have an attentive student. 

“Sithis is the absence of life, chaos, the void. He is to where all energy returns in death where it can be passed to his twin to be made into new life. We are his children, his hand here in Mundus. The brotherhood was once part of a group called the Morag Tong, but they worshiped the Daedric prince Mephala rather that Sithis. That is, until Mother came to be. She was the first Listener, I guess you could say. She spoke with Sithis himself, became his mortal bride and she shaped the family into the Dark Brotherhood. The Morag Tong when their own way and we went ours, though they still see us as a threat,” Cicero continued, spooning up two bowls of soup. The hot meal smelt of garlic and spices, a thick, orange-red colored sauce filled with chunks of meat and vegetables. It looked amazing. 

“She had five children from Sithis and under his orders, killed them!” He said finally and Claret froze with her spoon halfway to her mouth. She what? The white haired woman hesitated, eyes flicking up to meet his. He stared at her knowingly, as though he could see how her thoughts stumbled over themselves, the way her heart clenched painfully in her chest. A reassuring, phantom hand ghosted through her hair and Claret jerked like she’d been burned. 

“Don’t!” She hissed, suddenly very angry. Cicero watched her with wide, fearful eyes as Mother’s aura slowly encased the upset female. The Night Mother persisted and Claret raged inside. “Is that true? You killed your own children?”

A soft sigh sounded in her head. It really was all of the confirmation that Claret needed. 

“Why!?” Claret hissed, food set aside forgotten. 

“He needed them, child and they did not belong in this world.”

Wide eyed, Claret stared at nothing, jaw working. 

“What do you mean?” She whispered, throat dry and heart in her throat. 

“Think, my Listener. How could a child of a God truly survive in Mundus? Their bodies were dying, they were suffering and their father was alone in nothingness. You forget that death can also be love and mercy, child.” 

It took a great deal of effort to swallow down her emotions. She could never harm a child. Couldn’t imagine it! Especially her own child; the thought was painful and maddening to think about. But she trusted the Night Mother. It was impossible not to. If they were dying, suffering in a world they did not belong, what mother could watch that? Claret wasn’t so sure she would be able to make the same choice. It would kill her. She knew that even without having children herself. 

“How did you live with that?” Claret asked the air and a soft chuckle filled her mind. 

“I didn’t.”

That startled a laugh out of the Listener and she instantly felt horrible for her outburst.

“I’m sorry,” She mumbled, hating the feeling of being upset with the dead woman. It made her feel absolutely wretched. 

“I know, sweet girl. One day, you’ll understand the choices that I made. And one day you will have to make your own,” The Night Mother’s forgiveness was a soothing balm that sapped away all of the negative emotions almost instantaneously. It should have been a frightening thing; the dead woman having such a powerful influence on her. It was not. Claret let out a long sigh and focused back on Cicero who had crawled close to watch her closely with keen interest. She blinked at him owlishly.

“Cicero?” She asked, unnerved by both his closeness and the reverent look on his face. 

“I can see when mother touches your mind,” He happily crowed, looking radiantly happy over the fact. She scrunched her brows in confusion and he laughed, “ Her aura, presence, whatever. Cicero can see it because of these wonderful eyes. Cicero may never hear the Night Mother, but he can see her, feel her energy.”

Claret gaped at him as he knelt there looking on the verge of tears over it. His gloved fingers traced Claret’s cheeks and an angelic smile crossed his features that made her heart sing. 

“Because you are vampire,” She whispered. He nodded and a sob became a trapped, strangled sound in her throat. Claret had spent so long hating herself for what happened to Cicero, thinking that she had ruined his life. And he was happy! He wasn’t angry with her because of it, didn’t resent her because he now needed blood and had an aversion to the sun.

“That is why you ran, isn’t it?” He asked suddenly, realization dawning in his eyes. “You weren’t afraid of me being a vampire, you were afraid of me hating you for this, weren’t you?”

She couldn’t speak as all of her old fears rushed to the surface again. She had been so convinced that he would hate her, or be hurt more because of her incompetence and habit of being dragged into dangerous situations. 

“Foolish Dove,” He huffed, tugging the white haired woman into his arms and holding her so tight that it hurt in the best ways. She buried her face in his chest, hands gripping his motley and she breathed him in. Claret shook in his grip and he rubbed his cheek against the top of her head. 

“This is a gift,” He said and she clung to him tighter. He was cool, body temperature significantly lower than her own, and firm, his muscled body even more solid than she remembered and yet they still fit together in each other’s arms like a sword in its sheath. 

“I’m so sorry,” She rasped and he petted her hair. 

“Cicero knows, sweet Dove,” He murmured and her heart soared. 

“And the Listener needs to eat her dinner. Do not think that I didn’t notice you’ve stopped eating as much as you should,” He chided, pulling back and placing the still hot food in her hands. She scoffed at him with a wry smile. 

“Maybe you should leave more big trays of food by my bed then,” She teased and he gave her a confused look.

“Cicero has never left the Listener trays of food, Nazir gets rather upset when Cicero is in the kitchen after all,” He stated and Claret hesitated. Really? If Cicero hadn’t given her that tray then who? It wasn’t Babbette or Gabriella and it definitely wasn’t Arn or Astrid. She was fairly convinced that Festus wouldn’t do such and thing and Nazir was still reserved with his affections toward her since she was still considered new. That left… Veezara! A healthy flush rolled across her face. Shit. She was stupid. Suddenly all of his actions around her made a little more sense. He was overly kind to her, patient, and when they were in the same room he never took his eyes off of her. She’d been unnerved by the attention and assumed he was just watching her because he didn’t fully trust her. Was he attempting to court her?

“Oh ho, does sweet Dove have an admirer then, hmm?” Cicero crooned at her obnoxiously, but there was a hard gleam in his eyes that had the hair on the back of her neck rising. 

“I doubt it,” She replied quickly, giving him an annoyed scowl. “Everyone keeps telling me to eat more, I am sure one of the family just wanted to try and persuade me.” 

He didn’t look convinced but backed off anyway, returning to pick up his own bowl from where he left it and settling back on the log. They ate in a somewhat tense silence. The food was flavorful and delicious and Claret ate three bowl fulls, much to the Keeper’s approval.

“Your admirer doesn’t really matter anyway. The Listener is off limits,” He said thoughtfully and Claret felt one of her brows rising in an arch. Her hackles rose. She didn’t really have an interest in Veezara, but she hated being told what she could and could not do. 

“Oh really? And what if the Listener doesn’t want to be off limits?” She drawled in a tone that hinted at violence. Cicero gave her a serene smile. And held up his hand. Claret blinked. 

“The Black hand is the ruling body of the Brotherhood. The hand consists of four Speakers, individuals chosen by the Listener to guide the sanctuaries and divvy out the contracts given by the Night Mother,” He said while pointing to each finger respectively before tapping where his index fingernail was located under his gloves, “ Each Speaker has a partner, a Silencer who acts as their protector and who is a high ranked and elite assassin in their own right. Usually their relationship is very close, even if they dislike each other. Most are lovers.”

“The thumb of the hand is the most important and is a representation of the Listener and her partner. Their bond is different. It is spiritual in nature. Their souls are literally bound to each other from the moment they meet and Mother speaks to the Listener. The connection is intimate and always involves attraction and physical intimacy,” He continued and Claret licked her lips nervously. His stare was hard and full of heat and she suddenly found that she was having a difficult time drawing in air. 

“That is ridiculous. Are you telling me that I have some mysterious soul mate out there somewhere waiting to meet me?” She scoffed in disbelief and denial. Claret laughed at the absurdity. Hell she couldn’t even get her heart to stop caring about-Cicero. Cicero. Her laughter died in her throat and she stared at him as her stomach dropped out from under her. His steady, golden gaze held hers and her heartbeat quickened. 

“You already have,” Cicero said, looking a little lost. He laughed a little bitterly. “I should have recognized the signs when we met. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of you, couldn’t let you go even though everything in me wanted to protect you from the life of an assassin. I wanted to corrupt you just as much. You consumed my every thought, chased away the silence like it had never happened by just being there at my side. Think back. When did Mother first speak to you?”

“Whiterun,” She answered softly, remembering that moment when her common sense had told her to leave the Fool but the motherly voice in the back of her mind prodded her toward him instead. He scoffed out a laugh. 

“You’ve been mine practically from the moment we met then. And we had no idea,” He cackled without any real mirth. Something bitter sat on the back of Claret’s tongue. She jerked to stare at the fire, at anything but him. Did that mean that what they had shared had been forced by whatever magic bound the Keeper and Listener together? Was it real? And he had been intimate with her even knowing that he would be bonded to a Listener one day, with no idea than she was that Listener. Part of her felt irrationally betrayed while the rest was elated. He was hers. He even admitted to it! But, did he even want that? This certainly explained why she was practically obsessed with him.

“Now you understand.” He mumbled and Claret scrubbed at her face with her hands. She couldn’t handle this bond shit. Her self doubt gnawed at her insides all while the ever present ache to hold him ate away as her self control.

“I need time to deal with this,” She said finally. 

“Of course,” He replied stiffly.

“Tell me about the family, the way it should be run,” Claret added in order to distract them both. Cicero perked up pretty quickly with that request. He unrolled a scroll from his pack, the parchment old and weathered. The symbol of the brotherhood stood out in black and red ink at the top with a list of tenents written artistically beneath. 

 

I: Never dishonor the Night Mother. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis.  
II: Never betray the Dark Brotherhood or its secrets. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis.  
III: Never disobey or refuse to carry out an order from a Dark Brotherhood superior. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis.  
IV: Never steal the possessions of a Dark Brother or Dark Sister. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis.  
V: Never kill a Dark Brother or Dark Sister. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis.

Claret was confused suddenly as she re read the laws again. These were awfully simple. She had expected the actual rules to be stifling from the way that Astrid spoke of them, but this really wasn’t all that different from the way things were now. Aside from maybe the first rule and the religious bits mentioning the Wrath of Sithis, it was basically the same set of rules that Astrid upheld. That was strange. She frowned, gaze flicking up to stare at Cicero. 

“These are the main laws of the Brotherhood, put in place to protect us and to honor the family. They are simple but must be followed always. Any family member breaking these rules can be punished severely, even as far as death depending on the offense. There are rituals and rites as well, but they are less strict and more guidelines than rules. “ The vampire stated. All of it sounded very reasonable, honestly. What was Astrid’s problem? Claret felt a strange sense of unease. Was it because these were not her rules specifically that the blonde woman hated the foundation of the brotherhood? Was it because the previous head tarnished the structure of the sanctuary previously? It seemed that the family held a great deal of bitterness for the rules and basic principles because of the lack of influence by a proper Hand, the lack of Sithis’s voice. Her voice. This was awful. 

How was she supposed to fix this? Astrid had the loyalty of the family and would likely die before letting anyone else take control. Claret knew that, could feel it in how the blonde watched Cicero and now herself. And yet, the half elf also felt a strong, undeniable drive to obey the Night Mother, to fix the broken family that she was part of. She felt a bit like Farkas now that she thought about it. She didn’t care to lead, didn’t mind stepping aside to allow another to dictate their path. But how? Perhaps she could find a way to work with Astrid, to make her the Speaker of the sanctuary and Arn her Silencer. Allow the woman to continue running the affairs of the family while Claret acted as a conduit for the Night Mother’s words. Perhaps that would satisfy everyone?

A flutter of hope curled about her heart. It was all that she could think to do. 

“Each role has its purpose and it’s own guidelines. As the Keeper, Cicero has several rituals he must perform each day as well as several special tomes dictating my purpose. The Listener also had tomes, words passed on from other Listeners, however much of it was destroyed during the purges of the Sanctuaries. I’m afraid that I have nothing to help the Listener with as far as that goes,” Cicero continued, looking miserable and apologetic. It struck her in that moment that she’d never seen him look so utterly disappointed in himself. 

“That isn’t your fault, Cicero. You couldn’t have done anything to prevent that,” She murmured and his expression became stricken, as though he were in physical pain from it. His eyes closed off then, becoming still and quiet and Claret wanted nothing more than to keep him from ever looking that way again, “ I know that terrible things happened to you. And that you don’t fully trust me but if you ever need someone to speak to about it..”

“You’ll Listen?” He asked, small, amused smile morphing his face into something soft and adorable. She couldn’t help smiling with him. “Cicero will think on it.”

Claret didn’t push or pry, simply let him know that she was there. And she wasn’t going anywhere this time. A strange thought hit her as the cleaned away dinner and packed away the cookware. 

“Wait, so I thought you only drank blood?” She asked suddenly and Cicero snickered at the somewhat random thought.

“Blood is preferable because it makes me stronger, but mortal food still tastes good and still fills me up. Cicero enjoys eating,” Cicero answered happily. Huh. That was interesting. Babbette had never eaten anything that wasn’t blood around her. Claret was convinced that vampires just found no appeal in mortal food or perhaps they couldn’t ingest it. And then here once again comes Cicero to ruin all of her expectations and what she thought that she knew about the world. 

“If you need blood, you can always ask me, by the way. I don’t mind,” She added off handedly, ignoring the way her body flushed at the memory of how that had felt. 

“No.” His response was quick, firm, almost angry and it startled the white haired woman. He looked at her again with that reverent expression that unnerved her and said simply, “You are the Listener.”

“Alright,” She replied, trying to hide her disappointment and probably failing miserably. It bothered her, more than it probably should have. 

“The Listener should sleep. Cicero will keep watch,” He said then and not wanting to argue, the white haired woman nodded. She wished him a quiet goodnight and slipped into the fur lined tent, curling under her bedroll with a cocktail of unease and sadness whirling through her thoughts. She thought they were making progress, but somehow he was holding her away at an even greater distance than before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor babies just don't know how to handle each other lol.


End file.
